The Dog and the Wolf (62 page)

The gathering waited for his word.

He lifted the sword before him, kissed the blade, brought it around and sent it hissing into the sheath. “I thank you,” he said in the cadenced tones of a centurion addressing his men; but tonight his language was the language of Armorica. “I thank you for the honor you have given me, and the patience you have shown,”—he would not say anything about endless wrangling, pettiness, an
ger, bloodshed barely averted a couple of times—“and above all for your loyalty to the people and the law. With everything that is in me, everything I am, I will strive to be worthy of your trust.”

He couldn’t help it, he was no orator, his words turned plain and hard. “You’ve chosen me to be your war lord, your duke. My charge is nothing more or less than to see that you, your wives, your children, the old and the young and those not yet born, shall be free to get on with their lives untroubled by robbers, murderers, slavers, within and without. For that we’ll have to fight. I was a soldier once. I’m taking up my trade again. You must be soldiers too. I’ll have work out of you and your followers, sweat, long dull days where nothing happens, wounds and death when we need to spend men. You will carry out orders with no back talk. I’ll be free with my punishments, and as for rewards—as for rewards—why, those will be your wives and children and the roofs above them. Is that clear?”

They shouted. Nonetheless, he knew, this night called for something that was not in him to give, he, rough old roadpounder. They wanted one who could not so much speak as sing to them, a young God, a dream become flesh.

“I am only the duke,” he said. “I’m your leader for now, but just a soldier. Not your King. Here we can’t name any such man. There’s no foreknowing what will happen, what will be wise. All we can do for years ahead is defend our hearths. But you have a right to hail my deputy—him who’ll take my place if God or the luck of battle calls me away—who after I’ve stepped down, if I live, will carry on—Salomon Vero.”

It was no surprise. Everyone had understood beforehand. Yet blades flashed and shouts crashed until birds of day flew crying from their nests. “Salaun! Salaun! Salaun!”

The son of Apuleius swung lithely onto the dolmen and trod into firelight. Gratillonius knelt, picked up what had rested at his feet, unwrapped it. Steel shimmered like rippling water. Bronze plated the guard, silver coiled in the haft, and on the pommel smoldered a ruby, for the star of Mars. He lifted the weapon on high. “Take the sword of Armorica,” he called, and laid it in Salomon’s hands.

1

Harvest was done, the last sheaf consecrated as the Maiden, the wether chosen as Wolf of the Fold sacrificed, a branch hung with ears of grain brought into house or barn. Much remained to do, but the wise-women said this glorious weather would hold for another month or better, and the chiefs said that meanwhile more urgent was the business of war.

Suddenly, there the host was, down out of Redonum to Portus Namnetum and its neighbor Condevincum. Badly outnumbered, threatened by uprisings between the walls and dissension in their own ranks, the garrisons yielded without a fight. Gratillonius left a force sufficient to hold the gains, under Vortivir, who understood how to govern a city and make warriors respect pledges of no looting or violence. The bulk of his men started up the Liger Valley, commanded by Drusus. Gratillonius himself led a picked detachment rapidly ahead on horseback, with remounts. Most of them lacked the art of fighting in the saddle, but that didn’t matter now. As formidable as they were, the troops at Juliomagus made no move when they passed, nor did anyone disturb them at night.

On the third morning they clattered by the monastery across the river—the brothers scarcely had time to call on God and holy Martinus before the armed men were again out of view—and reached Caesarodunum Turonum.

To watchers on the ramparts, they were a dismaying sight. The stones of the bridge rang under the hoofs of their horses. Standards rippled to their speed until they drew rein; on the foremost banner grinned a she-wolf. Spears swayed like stalks before a rising wind. Sunlight flashed darkly over helmets and mailcoats, most taken off
slain Germani. Barbarically bright were many cloaks or Gallic breeches; but it was the wilderness that had yielded those furs and lowing aurochs horns.

Three hundred strong, they massed on the riverside just out of ready bowshot. One cantered from among them holding up a green bough. Stentor-voiced, he called for truce and parley. Duke Gratillonius—surely the big man of middle age, outfitted like a centurion, who dispatched him—wished no harm on the city. If he must, he would take it. This company alone could get over its weakly manned defenses. However, he would wait for his army. The Romans were free to send riders under safe conduct who could verify its strength. If caused to spend added days away from home, where it was needed both for warding against barbarians and for help with the winnowing and other vital tasks, it would be an angry pack of men. Duke Gratillonius would still forbid a sack, but he could not warrant that any of the garrison would survive. Better that the Imperials promptly negotiate terms.

—In the event, Bacca and Bricius were the delegates who came forth, accompanied by half a dozen scribes and assistants. Gratillonius received them in a large tent he had had pitched. Camp life brawled around it, rough tones and laughter, fire-crackle, footfalls, clash of iron, occasional shout or neigh or snatch of a song old when Caesar came and went through Armorica. The blue-and-white sailcloth gave shade but scant shelter.

Gratillonius, armored yet, said, “Hail” and gestured at some saddles. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can offer you to sit on,” he told the guests, “and river water the best drink. We’ve traveled light, so as to travel fast.”

Bricius, his portly form attired in a red silk robe, a golden cross hung on his breast, puffed indignantly, “I will not demean my sacred office by squatting down like a savage.”

Bacca’s smile was wry. “We may as well stand,” he said. “I doubt this will take long. What do you want, Gratillonius?”

A gem glittered as the bishop lifted a forefinger. “Beware,” he warned. “You rebel against God’s anointed. Satan makes ready a place for you.’
Bacca dissolved the scowl on Gratillonius by remarking, “There are some who consider God’s anointed to be Honorius.”

“Mother Church takes no side in earthly quarrels between her children,” Bricius said hastily. “She can but sorrow, that they are proud and hard of heart. God will give victory to the righteous. You, though, Gratillonius, defy any and all authority. I say to you that unless you repent and make amends for the damage you have done, God will cast you down, and your torment shall be eternal.”

“Bishop Corentinus tells me differently,” the leader snapped. “If Christians can’t even agree on what they believe, the Church has no business in their worldly affairs.”

“I have the impression that Bishop Corentinus does not quite accept that proposition either,” Bacca said, crumpling his cheeks with a second lip-shut smile.

“Well, I’ll take my ghostly counsel from the man I know to be honest,” Gratillonius said. “You’ve wasted your time coming out, your reverence. Please don’t waste ours too.”

“Oh, the insolence!” Bricius groaned. “Scribes, are you noting this down in full?”

“It won’t be much use to anybody. Naturally, your reverence and the monks, all clergy, can stay. No one will lay a hand on you or anything of yours, and we’ll maintain order and allow trade as usual, so that the city needn’t suffer either.” Gratillonius turned to Bacca. “But the officials of the state—Governor Glabrio, Duke Murena, and you, Procurator, together with your underlings—you shall go. Officers of the garrison likewise, unless they swear obedience to those we’ll put in charge. Same for ordinary soldiers; but I expect, since they’re almost entirely local lads, they’ll choose to stay. That happened at Namnetum.”

Bricius gobbled in dismay. Bacca regarded Gratillonius coolly and said, “We weren’t sure, but the cutoff of communications suggested you’d occupied the port. What else?”

“We’ll do the same at Juliomagus, but that’s a minor job. I wanted to secure Turonum first.”

“Expelling the Imperium, as you’ve done throughout Armorica. But you’re a considerable way from Armorica, my friend.”

“Listen.” Gratillonius softened his tone. “I remind you
that when we sent those people packing, it was bloodless.” Well, almost. Despite his orders, some grudges got paid off. He couldn’t be everywhere, but must rely on the patchwork confraternities and on tribal bands awakened to remembrance of the fact that their forefathers had been warriors. “They’ve mostly come to you, including such officers and troops as refused to join us. Those aren’t many. Armorica has never been well defended, which is a main reason she’s in revolt today. Murena’s been trying to make those soldiers a kernel for a force that will retake our country. He’s written to Constantinus, asking for reinforcements. Don’t deny it. We’ve intercepted a letter. This countryside is also full of disaffected folk, and I’ve had agents among them for a long time.” Rufinus accomplished that. “Murena has doubtless sent appeals that did get through. We cannot allow such a threat to be built up, six easy days’ march from Redonum.”

Bacca lifted his brows. “Ah, but can your impetuous Gauls hold a position six days’ march distant from Redonum?”

Gratillonius chuckled. “You’re a shrewd devil, you are. Care to join my staff? I promise you an interesting life.”

“Were I young, I might consider it. But I fear I value my comfort, books, conversations, correspondence too much. My hope was, and perforce continues to be, that Constantinus will guarantee them. Are you not the least bit afraid of his vengeance?”

“He’s busy in the South, Romans ahead of him, Germani on his flank. If we neutralize the lower Liger Valley and make accommodation with the Saxons at the estuary—that’s in train—then he’ll have no base here. He won’t send troops to bog themselves down in a war that serves no strategic purpose. I credit him with better sense than that. Supposing he does win out at last over his present enemies and gets things well enough in hand in the South that he can turn his attention back to the North—that can’t be for years, and meanwhile we’ll have been making ready.”

“You do not actually propose to hold the valley, then?”

“We might hang onto Namnetum. I’d like to, but it depends on how the next several months go and what
arrangement we finally make with the Saxons at Corbilo. Otherwise, once you officials are out, we’ll simply keep an eye on Juliomagus and Turonum. It’ll be to everybody’s interest to leave them in peace. Tell Constantinus that.”

“You assume I will … be seeing the Augustus again soon.”

“What choice have you? Listen, I am not going to dicker with you, or Glabrio, or Murena, or anybody, about anything except the practical details of how to start you headed south. I want it to happen fast. Understood?”

“In short, you demand capitulation. Have you thought that this might put, say, Murena on his honor to refuse?”

“I’ll leave you to handle Murena’s honor,” Gratillonius drawled.

The procurator laughed. “You’re a fairly shrewd fellow yourself, in your fashion Damn, I wish we could have worked together. I’m actually going to miss you. Well, let’s get busy.”

Bricius had smoothed himself and maintained a politic silence.

2

Next morning the Emperor’s men departed. With them traveled their families, sympathizers, most paid subordinates, and some slaves. Others refused obedience and stayed behind, expecting to become free. Gratillonius hoped that wouldn’t bring undue grief on them or on innocent civilians. He could not take up their cause, or any but Armorica’s.

The Romans showed nervousness at first, unsure what the Gauls who lined both sides of the highway would do. The soldiers among them surrounded a richly curtained litter which doubtless carried Governor Glabrio. The Duke of the Armorican Tract rode in armor, astride a tall horse, at their head, looking straight before him, his face locked into fury. More horses and mules followed, carrying people or possessions. Oxcarts creaked heavy-laden; here and there a gleam from below the canvases or within the tilts
showed how much treasure was loaded aboard. Gratillonius had advised against that. Well, what escort the caravan had could probably discourage bandits; it was only sixty or seventy miles to Pictavum, the nearest substantial city.

The Armoricans neither molested nor mocked. They watched, swapping occasional soft words, perhaps a little awed by what they had so easily done, perhaps a little frightened at seeing empire ebb away like this.

From his saddle Gratillonius spied Bacca on an easy-paced gelding, quite self-possessed. Beside him trundled a canopied cart in which sat a plump woman, well gowned, with two half-grown children. The driver was a youth slightly older. Gratillonius realized in vague surprise that he had never thought of the procurator as having a family.

Several yards farther in the dismal parade, another woman came alone. She sat lightly on a gray palfrey. The breeze fluttered a cowled black cloak away from an enveloping dress of good brown material and a small pectoral cross. Again Gratillonius felt surprise brush him. Did Roman women ride horses, even sidesaddle? He’d seen ladies do it in Britannia when he was young, but they were provincials, and not among the wealthier ones.

Recognition shocked.

“Stay where you are,” he told his guards, and trotted Favonius out onto the pavement. Eddies of alarm swerved some outcasts in their course. He heard gasps, mumbles, a squeal. Ignoring them, he drew next to the woman. She had glanced about, seen him, and at once looked forward, as stiffly as Murena.

“Runa,” he said in Ysan, “Runa, I awaited not this. Methought you dwelt among the religious women. They’ll take no harm, I swear.”

She held her vision to the south. His traveled over the sharp profile and ivory skin, down to the slender hands. They had held him close once, those hands. Veins made a faint blue tracery on them, and he had never seen any other fingers or nails as finely formed as theirs. They had wrought much beauty on parchment and papyrus, those hands.