Gallicenae (24 page)

On this day there was a slight haze, and enough breeze eddied past the headland to make the air nip. It smelled of salt, kelp, clean decay, things less readily knowable. Vindilis and Innilis settled themselves on a driftwood log. In front of them the sand reached coarse, tawny-dark, to a wet edge that was almost black. Beyond glimmered and surged the water, and the wall of Ys curved away, ruddy-hued, dizzyingly high up to the frieze of mythic figures and the battlements. On the other side the promontory bulked westward. Stones and boulders lay jumbled on its flanks, below scaurs where grass clustered silvery. Farther on, sight of land ended and the sea heaved gray-green, bursting white over the reefs. Birds skimmed about, creaking, or walked on the grit, to flap off when Dahut scampered their way.

The Queens had brought a large blanket as well as a basket of refreshments. No servant had carried these; they would not miss an opportunity to be by themselves. Vindilis’s aquiline features softened as she brought the cover around them both. Once they sat wrapped in it, arms went about waists. Innilis sighed, almost happily, and laid her head against the taller woman’s shoulder.

“How dear a moment this is,” she murmured after a while.

Vindilis nodded. “All too uncommon.”

“When… we go back up… and you take the child to your house… shall I come along? Spend the night?”

Pain replied: “Nay, that would be too risky.”

“Why? Grallon won’t be there, in spite of her. Tis Guilvilis’s night, if he beds with any of us.”

“I know. Yet—Dahut sleeps lightly at this stage of her life. Two days ago, with Forsquilis, she was wandering around thrice in the night. Maldunilis told me earlier, giggling, how when father and daughter were both with her, Dahut came in as they were making love.”

Innilis flushed. “Really? What did G-Grallon do?”

“Oh, he scolded her mildly, shooed her out, and continued. She can do no wrong in his sight.” Vindilis scowled. “You and I—She’d
surely babble to him. Whether or not she saw, she has sharp ears and an uncannily quick little mind.”

Innilis drooped. “I see. We must go back to stealing our times like chicken thieves.”

“The Gallicenae require their secrets kept from the King, now more than ever.” Vindilis glanced at the girl. She was piling sand together near the waves. Vindilis brushed lips across Innilis’s cheek. Under the blanket, her free hand cupped a breast. “We will have our times,” she promised, “and do not think of them as stolen. They are our right. Blame not yonder child. Through her, we may win a happier morrow for ourselves.”

“What? How?”

“I know not. But clear it always was, Dahut has been born fateful; and the Gods have yet to claim Their due from Grallon.”

“Nay, no harm to him, please,” Innilis begged of the wind.

“I too hope ’twill be mere chastisement. We must wait and see. But dearest, if They remain well pleased with us twain, and if Dahut is she who shall make a new Pact with the Gods—” Vindilis held Innilis close.

A seal splashed and slithered onto a rock not far off the beach. Dahut saw, sprang to her feet, strained peering into sunlight and sea-blink. The gown fluttered about her taut slenderness. She called, a wordless quaver. The seal rested quiet. Dahut’s head drooped. She turned about and walked toward the women.

Vindilis released Innilis, who reached out from under the blanket and inquired, “Darling, what’s wrong?”

“I thought ’twas
my
seal.” Dahut stopped, stared downward, dug a toe in the sand, clenched fists. “Twasn’t. Just an or’nary ol’ bull.”

Innilis smiled and, seeking to humor her, asked, “How can you be sure of that?”

Dahut looked up. Under the wild blond locks, her eyes were the hue of lapis lazuli, and as steady. “I know. She taught me.”

“Indeed?” said Vindilis. “I’ve heard you make mention, and heard from others—But what is this seal you call yours?”

“She loves me,” Dahut said. “Better’n anybody, ’cep’ maybe father.”

“Seals are sacred to both Lir and Belisama,” Vindilis said mutedly. “I can well believe certain among them have… powers.”

Dahut’s mood brightened. “Can I get to be a seal? Like her?”

Innilis traced a sign against misfortune. Vindilis said, “Nobody knows. There are stories that—that sometimes good people come back as seals after they die, because the Goddess hears their plea at the Ferrying to Sena. That’s so they can wait for those they loved and left behind. But nobody knows.”

“I wouldn’ be ’fraid to,” Dahut declared.

“Peace,” counselled Innilis. “Beware of overpridefulness. There are stories that bad people come back too, when the Gods are very angry with them—but as sharks, or things still worse.”

Dahut suppressed a retort, flung her head high, and stood straight.

“I think,” said Vindilis, “when we go home this evening, I should teach you a new prayer.
‘Mother of Death, come softly, I beseech.’
You may, after all, not be too young for learning such things.” She unbent. “Afterward I’ll tell you about a vestal long ago, who by the favor of Belisama had wonderful adventures.”

Likewise seeking to please the girl, Innilis said, “That’s a splendid fort you’re making there.”

Dahut nodded. She was not shy about accepting praise. “Tis Ys,” she answered. “I’m making Ys.”

And she did, remarkably well, before she watched the tide come in and wash it away.

4

That year huge rainstorms arrived in succession, with lightning and hail. Harvests throughout western Armorica were meager, or failed altogether. There were those who muttered that Taranis was avenging the wrong He had suffered in the Wood. They were not many, though. King Grallon had long since established royal granaries and filled them with the surplus of good seasons, bought from the Osismii. Now the folk for whom his agents provided generally blessed his name. Rejoicing followed his proclamation that as soon as possible, he would commission ships to go fetch more from Brittania and Aquitania. As trade revived—in considerable part because of his measures against bandits and pirates—wealth had flowed into Ys until now the city could readily afford whatever it needed to see it through the next twelvemonth. Thus did disaster not undermine Grallon’s authority, but rather strengthened it.

Corentinus therefore expressed surprise when Budic came to his church with word that the King had urgent want of his presence. He said nothing further, threw a hooded cloak over his coarse dark robe, and followed the soldier out. The midday was murky, rain driven thick and chill before a shrieking wind. It scourged faces, forced itself through garments, coursed down ribs and legs, swirled in the streets higher than shoesoles. Often heaven flared, and thunder followed like the wheels of a monstrous war chariot. The sea raged at the gate which the King had locked.

At the palace, the majordomo took the newcomer’s cloak and offered him a towel and change of clothes. “I thank you, but nay,” Corentinus replied. “Let my wet tracks be a sign to you that here also is no hiding from God. Lead me to your master.”

Gratillonius sat in the upstairs room he favored for private conferences. Cups, jugs of wine and water, a lamp stood on the table before him. Next to them lay a papyrus roll. Neither the flame nor the greenish-glassed windows much relieved a dampness in which pastoral frescoes became an irony, nor did a brazier give much warmth. Beneath his
everyday outfit of tunic and trousers, Gratillonius huddled in a cape; and that was strange; for cold did not usually trouble him. He had left off any ornamentation. When he looked up at Corentinus’s entry, the chorespiscopus saw the strong-boned countenance drawn into haggardness.

“Shut the door,” Gratillonius rasped in Latin. “Be seated.”

Corentinus obeyed. Gratillonius leaned over the table between them, stabbed a forefinger onto the document, and said in the same tone, “Magnus Maximus is dead.”

“What?” Briefly, Corentinus registered shock. He crossed himself, bowed his head, whispered a prayer. When he again met the other man’s gaze, his own was firm. “You’ve just had word?”

Gratillonius jerked a nod. “From the Duke. It happened well over a month ago, but couriers to bear the news were few.”

“Theodosius overthrew Maximus, then? He died in battle?”

“No. Theodosius defeated him decisively near Aquileia. I think the Gothic cavalry made the difference. Maximus surrendered and renounced his claim to the throne. That should have been the end, hey? Exile somewhere, to an island, likeliest. Let the man who saved Britannia close his days in peace and honor. But no, soon afterward Maximus and his young son Victor were killed. This letter to me isn’t clear as to whether it was beheading at the express order of Theodosius, or murder by stealth.” A fist smote the table. The lampflame quivered. “Whichever, we know by whose will they died!”

“God rest their souls,” Corentinus said. “And yet He is just, is He not? Maximus’s rival Gratianus perished miserably too—and Priscillianus, and how many more?—because of that man’s ambition.”

“I’d grudges of my own against him. But he was my old commandant!” Gratillonius shouted. “He held the Wall for Rome! He should not have died like that!”

He seized the wine jug and sloshed full a cup. Without adding water, he swallowed. “Pour for yourself, Corentinus,” he said. “Drink with me to the memory of Magnus Maximus.”

“Is this why you sent for me?”

“N-no. Not really. Though I do want, need, to talk with you, and I expect I’ll get drunk, and that’s nothing a man should do alone.”

Corentinus took a small measure of wine, diluted it well, and sipped. “May I offer a Mass for the repose of those souls?”

“Do. I meant to ask it of you. I thought of a funerary rite before Mithras, but—but Maximus wouldn’t have liked that, would he? I’ll pay what it costs to have you give my commandant a Christian farewell.”

Wind keened, rain runneled down the glass.

“Am I the first you have told about this?” asked Corentinus.

Again Gratillonius nodded stiffly. “I’ve got to convene the Suffetes and break the news. But first I’d better have a plan to lay before them. Else they’ll debate and squabble and bargain, while matters drift. That kind of delay could prove fatal.”

“I am no politician or soldier, my son. I couldn’t advise you.”

“Oh, you can. You’ve been around in the Empire more than I have. You’ve got the ear of Bishop Martinus, who’s more powerful than he pretends, even to himself. Theodosius has reinstalled Valentinianus, his brother-in-law, as Augustus of the West; but Theodosius is staying on for a while in Italy, and you know very well who’s really going to rule. From what I hear, he’s a zealous Catholic. You can better guess than I how he’ll use the church, and it him.”

Corentinus frowned. “Watch your tongue.” He paused. “What do you fear, exactly? Won’t everyone benefit from peace and a strong Imperium?”

“Once I’d have supposed so,” Gratillonius answered starkly, “but I’ve learned otherwise. And… I belong here now, I belong to Ys. Rome is still my Mother, but Ys is my Wife.”

Within the short beard, Corentinus’s lips quirked the least bit. Sobering, he lingered over a fresh taste of his wine before he said: “I see. Maximus appointed you prefect. There will doubtless be a pretty deep-going purge of his officials.”

Gratillonius drained his cup and refilled it. “I’m not frightened for myself. I honestly think I’m not. But if I’m ordered back and—and obey, what then? Who’ll succeed me? What’ll he do?”

“Do you fear Roman occupation, the pagan temples destroyed and rites forbidden, Ys rising in revolt and Rome laying it waste as Rome long ago did to Jerusalem?”

Gratillonius shivered. “You’ve said it.”

Corentinus regarded him closely. “Then I’ll also say that this strikes me as being a terrible evil. They’re not simple rustics in Ys, the kind whose sanctuaries I helped Martinus overthrow. There it was enough to show how the old Gods were powerless to stop us. They’d never been very large in the lives of the people. A spring, a hill, any sacred site meant more; and it can as well be under the tutelage of a Christian saint. The Gods of Ys will not fade away like that. Before yielding up Their worshippers, They would bring Ys itself down in ruin.”

“You understand,” Gratillonius breathed.

“My holy duty is to win your people to the true Faith. My single hope of doing so without bringing on catastrophe is by persuasion, patience, year after slow year. Not to attack the Gods, but to sap Them. If only you would unlock your heart—But at least, under you, Ys flourishes, open to newness as it has not been in centuries; and your protection is impartial. We need you as our King.”

“If you’d write to Martinus—”

“I’ll do that, and more. He, in his turn, can convince the bishops throughout Lugdunensis that Ys should be spared. The Imperium ought to heed them. Besides, in worldly terms, better a loyal foederate, a keystone of defense and a cauldron of trade, than wreckage.”

Gratillonius eased somewhat, achieved a smile, said: ‘Thank you. The Duke is on my side already. I don’t think they’ll dismiss him; he
goes back to before Maximus. If you can make the Church our ally as well—” Impulsively: “Listen, Corentinus. You know the Ysan charities are mostly run by the Gallicenae. I know your mission hasn’t much to spend. Help me, and I’ll endow your good works, generously.”

“The thought does you credit,” replied the pastor with care, “but the deed could endanger you. Your magnates would see it as yet another defiance of the Gods.”

“What I lay out of my privy purse is no concern of theirs, or of Theirs.”

“M-m, you realize that such of the poor and unfortunate as you enable us to aid—they will be grateful more to us than you, and this will incline them toward Christ.”

Gratillonius laughed and drank. “Manly of you to warn me, but of course I knew it. No harm done. Why should I bar anybody from forsaking the Gods of Ys?”

Corentinus studied him. “Wouldn’t you want them to come to your Mithras?”

Gratillonius shrugged. On the heels of his merriment trod pain: “Few ever would. His is no longer a conquering army. We hold the wall for Him while we can, but the foe has marched around it.”