The Dog and the Wolf (9 page)

Eochaid sighed and shook his head. “They remember in Mide. This face of mine would give your game away.” Bleakly: “We’ve thought we’ll seek folk like ourselves, Scoti, where we may be making a new home; but that cannot be in green Ériu, not ever again.”

Maeloch chopped his ax several times into the turf to clean the blood and brains off it. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

“I’ll come with you to your ship, and sign to my own men that they return. Heave anchor when they’re out of sight. I must let Gunnung’s men know what happened to him, though I need not tell them more than that.” Eochaid grinned. “Nor need I hurry along these trails. For it may be that in you is the beginning of my revenge.”

1

Rovinda, wife of Apuleius, slipped into the darkened room. She left the door ajar behind her. “How are you, Gratillonius?” she murmured. “Sleeping?”

The man in the bed hardly stirred. “No, I’ve been lying awake.” His words came flat.

She approached. “We shall eat shortly. Will you join us?”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

She looked downward. By light that seeped in from the hallway and past the heavy curtain across the window she saw how gaunt and sallow he had grown. “You should. You’ve scarcely tasted food these past—how many days since you came to us?”

Gratillonius didn’t answer. He couldn’t remember. Six, seven, eight? It made no difference.

The woman gathered courage. “You must not continue like this.”

“I am … worn out.”

Her tone sharpened. “You fought your way out of the flood, and afterward exhausted what strength you had left for the sake of what people had survived. True. But that soldier’s body of yours should have recovered in a day or two. Gratillonius, they still need you. We all do.”

He stared up at her. Though no longer young, she was sightly: tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed, fine-featured, born to a well-off Osismiic family with ancient Roman connections. He recalled vaguely that she was even more quiet and mild than her husband, but even more apt to get her
way in the end. He sighed. “I would if I could, Rovinda. Leave me in peace.”

“It’s no longer weariness that weighs you down. It’s sorrow.”

“No doubt. Leave me alone with it.”

“Others have suffered bereavement before you. It is the lot of mortals.” She said nothing about the children she had lost, year after year.

Two lived. Well, he thought, two of his did, Nemeta and Julia, together with little Korai, granddaughter of Bodilis. But the rest were gone. Dahut was gone, Dahilis’s daughter, swept from him with foundering Ys, off into Ocean. Would her bones find her mothers down there?

“You should be man enough to carry on,” Rovinda said. “Call on Christ. He will help you.”

Gratillonius turned his face to the wall.

Rovinda hesitated before she bent above him and whispered, “Or call on what God or Gods you will. Your Mithras you’ve been so faithful to? Sometimes I—please keep this secret; it would hurt Apuleius too much—I am a Christian, of course, but sometimes in hours of grief I’ve stolen away and opened my heart to one of the old Goddesses. Shall I tell you about Her? She’s small and kindly.”

Gratillonius shook his head on the pillow.

Rovinda straightened. “I’ll go, since you want me to. But I’ll send in a bowl of soup, at least. Promise me you’ll take that much.”

He kept silent. She went out.

Gratillonius looked back toward the ceiling. Sluggishly, he wondered what did ail him. He should indeed have been up and about. The ache had drained from muscles and marrow. But what remained was utter slackness. It was as if a sorcerer had turned him to lead, no, to a sack of meal. Where worms crawled. Most of his hours went in drowsing—never honest sleep, or so it seemed.

Well, why not? What else? The world was formless, colorless, empty of meaning. All Gods were gone from it. He wondered if They had ever cared, or ever existed. The question was as vain as any other. He felt an obscure restlessness, and supposed that in time it would force him
to start doing things. They had better be dullard’s tasks, though; he was fit for nothing more.

—Brightness roused him. He blinked at the slim form that rustled in carrying a bowl. Savory odors drifted out of it. “Here is your soup, Uncle Gaius,” Verania greeted. “M-m-mother said I could bring it to you.”

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled.

“Oh, please.’ The girl set it down on a small table which she drew to the bedside. She dared a smile. “Make us happy. Old Namma—the cook, you know—worked extra hard on it. She adores you.”

Gratillonius decided it was easiest to oblige. He sat up. Verania beamed. “Ah, wonderful! Do you want me to feed it to you?”

That stung. He threw her a glare but encountered only innocence. “I’m not crippled,” he growled, and reached for the spoon. After a few mouthfuls he put it back.

“Now you can eat more than that,” she coaxed. “Just a little more. One for Namma. She does have good taste, doesn’t she? In men, I mean—Oh!” She brought hand to lips. By the sunlight reflected off a corridor wall he saw her blush fiery.

Somehow that made him obey. And that encouraged her. She grew almost merry. “Fine. Take another for … for your horse Favonius. Poor dear, he misses you so. … One for Hercules. … One for Ulysses. … One for, m-m, my brother. You promised Salomon you’d teach him sword- and shieldcraft when he was big enough, do you remember? … One for Julius Caesar. One for Augustus. One for Tiberius. You don’t have to take one for Caligula, but Claudius was nice, wasn’t he?”

With a flicker of wish to argue, Gratillonius said, “He conquered Britannia.”

“He made your people Romans, like mine. Give him his libation, do. Down your throat. Good.” She clapped her hands.

Feet thudded in the hall. Verania squeaked. She and Gratillonius gaped at the tall gaunt man in the travel-stained rough robe who entered. He strode to the bedside and placed himself arms akimbo, glowering.

“I hear you’re ill.” His voice was harsher than before, as
if he had lately shouted a great deal. “What’s the matter? Rovinda says you have no fever.”

“You’re back,” Gratillonius said.

Corentinus’s gray beard waggled to his nod, as violent as that was. “Tell me more, O wise one. I’ve brought men for you. Now get out and use them, for I’ve reached the limit of what I can make those muleheads do.”

“Sir, he
is
sick,” Verania made bold to plead. “What do you want of him? Can’t father take charge, or, or anybody?”

The pastor softened at sight of her face. Tears trembled on her lashes. “I fear not, child,” he said. “To begin with, they are pagans, disinclined to heed me.”

“From Ys—from what was Ys?”

He nodded. “We must start at once preparing a place for the survivors. The first few score have lodging here, but not for long; soon the traders will be coming, and Aquilo needs them too much to deny them their usual quarters. Besides, it could never take in all who are left in the countryside. They’ll require shelter, defenses—homes. Your father has most Christianly granted a good-sized site, his farmland. Oh, you knew already? Well, first we should make a ditch and wall: for evildoers will hear of the disaster and come seeking to take advantage. I went back after able-bodied men. On the way, I thought they’d better include some who know how to fight.”

He and Apuleius decided this, and he walked off … without me, Gratillonius thought. Inwardly he cringed. Aloud: “Who did you find?”

“I remembered that squad of marines at the Nymphaeum,” Corentinus answered. “They refused to leave unless the women came too. They think it’s their sacred duty to guard the women of the Temple. Well, that’s manly of them. But I had a rocky time persuading the priestess in charge, that Runa, persuading her to leave immediately. At last she agreed. By then such a span had passed that I thought best we go straightaway. The marines could begin on the fortifications while I went after additional labor. But they will not. I stormed and swore, but couldn’t shake them.”

“Why?” wondered Gratillonius.

“In part their leader claims they must stay with their charges. I have to admit Runa’s trying to convince them she and the others will be safe in Aquilo. But also, they say it’s demeaning work. Furthermore, they don’t know how to do it. Ha!”

Gratillonius tugged his beard. “There’s truth in that,” he said slowly. “It’s more than just digging. Cutting turfs and laying them to make a firm wall is an art.” After a moment: “An art never known in Ys because it was never needed, and pretty much lost in Gallia. I think we in the Britannia were the last of the real old legionaries. On the Continent they’ve become cadres at best—the best not worth much—for peasant reserves and barbarian mercenaries.”

The eagles of Rome fly no more. All at once the thought was not insignificant like everything mortal, nor saddening or frightening. It infuriated him.

“So stop malingering,” Corentinus snapped. “Go show them.”

“Oh!” wailed Verania, shocked and indignant.

“By Hercules, I will.” Gratillonius swung himself out of the blankets onto the floor. He had forgotten his nakedness. Verania smothered a gasp and fled. His blunder lashed yet more life into him. He had to make it good. Flinging on tunic, hastily binding sandals, he stalked from the room, Corentinus at his heels.

Given directions, he found the party outside of town, at the western end of the bridge across the Odita. He must push through a crowd of curious local folk. They kept well aside, though, and he glimpsed some making furtive signs against witchcraft.

It was a clear afternoon. He felt a faint amazement at how bright the sunlight was. A blustery wind chased small clouds; a flight of storks passed overhead, as white as they. Light burned along the greenness that had bestormed fields and forest. The wind was sharp, with a taste of newly turned earth in it. Women’s dresses, men’s cloaks, stray locks of hair fluttered.

The vestals shared none of the wind’s vigor. Their trip had been cruel to soft feet, though they took turns on the four horses and had overnighted in a charcoal burner’s
hut. They clutched their garments and stared with eyes full of fright—and Nemeta’s an underlying defiance. Korai clung to Julia’s hand like an infant. Runa did seem undaunted. Her lips were pressed thin in anger. She hailed Gratillonius coldly.

The dozen marines stood together, Amreth at their head. They bore the full gear of their corps: peaked helmets, flared shoulderpieces and greaves, loricated cuirasses engraved with abstract motifs, cloth blue or gray like the sea, laurel-leaf swords, hooked pikes. Gratillonius felt relief at seeing the metal was polished; but the outfits made them glaringly alien here.

He approached the leader and halted. Amreth gave him salute. He responded as was fitting among Ysans. “Greeting,” he said in their tongue, “and welcome to your new home.”

“We thank you, lord,” Amreth answered with care.

“’Twill take work ere ’tis fit for the settling of our folk. What’s this I hear about your refusing duty?”

Amreth braced himself. “Lord, I am of Suffete family. Most of us are. Pick-and-shovel work is for commoners.”

“’Twas good enough for Rome’s legionaries when Caesar met Brennilis. Sailors born to Suffetes toil side by side with their low-born shipmates. Do you fear you lack the strength?”

Amreth reddened beneath his sunburn. “Nay, lord. We lack skill. Why not bring men off the farms?”

“They’re plowing and sowing, lest everyone go hungry later. Twill be a lean year, with so many mouths. Be thankful Aquilo will share till we can take care of ourselves.”

“Well, countryfolk who were your subjects are still back in the homeland. Fetch them, lord. Our duty is to these holy maidens.”

“Aye. To make a proper place for them, not stand idle when they’ve ample protection waiting behind yonder rampart.”

Amreth frowned. Gratillonius drew breath. “They who remain of Ys
are
my subjects,” he said levelly. “I am the King. I broke the Scoti, I broke the Franks, and I slew every challenger who sought me in the Wood. If the Gods of Ys have forsaken my people, I have not. I will show you
what to do and teach you how and cut the first turfs with these hands that have wielded my sword.” He raised his voice. “Attention! Follow me.”

For an instant he thought he had lost. Then Amreth said, “Aye, King,” and beckoned to his men. They fell in behind Gratillonius.

“I will take them to the site, and barrack them later,” he told Runa. “Let Corentinus lead you and the vestals to your quarters now, my lady.”

She nodded. He marched off with the marines, over the bridge, through the town, out the east gate, northward along the river to the confluence. As yet he must compel himself, hold a shield up to hide the vacantness within; but already he felt it filling and knew he would become a man again. If nothing else, he had a man’s work ahead of him.

It was odd how he kept thinking of Runa. Her look upon him had turned so thoughtful.

2

Most fruit trees were done with blooming, but a new loveliness dwelt in Liguria. From mountains north, south, and west, the plain around Mediolanum reached eastward beyond sight, orchards, fields marked off by rows of mulberry and poplar whose leaves danced in the breeze, tiny white villages. The air lulled blithe with birdsong. It was as if springtime would repay men for the harshness of the winter past, the brutality of the summer to come. Even slaves went about their work with a measure of happiness.

Rufinus and Dion rode back to the city. Sunlight slanted from low on their right. The horses plodded. They had covered a number of miles since leaving at dawn. In hills northward they had had hours of rest while their riders took the pleasures of the woodland, food and drink, lyre and song, frolic, love, ease in each other’s nearness. But the return trip was long. When walls and towers became clear in their sight, the animals regained some briskness.

Rufinus laughed. “They’re ready for the good old stable,
they are! And what would you say to an hour or two in the baths?”

“Well,” Dion replied with his usual diffidence, “it will be pleasant. And still—-I wish this day did not have to end. If only we could have stayed where we were forever.”