Gallicenae (39 page)

“Oh, well mind our manners, you and I. The trade’s too profitable. Also, we’ve got much to learn, and there’ll be pleasures as well. Only be sure to keep your soul steady as she goes. I’m told the Armoricans have stories like ours, about sirens who lure seamen onto the rocks. Well, even inside wall and gate, the reefs of hell are underneath us.”

Some of the food set before them in the common room was curious, all was delicious—marinated mussels, leeks cooked in chicken broth, plaice lightly fried with thyme and watercress, white bread wherein hazelnuts had been baked, sweet butter, blue-veined cheese, honeycake, and a dry, herbal-flavored mead that sang on the tongue. The serving wench, about Aulus’s age, gave him glances and smiles that caused his father to frown.

However, Tiberius responded gladly when a messenger appeared, a boy whose red tunic had embroidered upon the breast a golden wheel. “Captain Carsa?” he asked. His Latin had a peculiar construction. “I am from King Gratillonius. Ever is he desirous of making strangers welcome and hearing from them about the larger world. Therefore is word of them always borne to him. He will be glad to receive you this very eventide.”

“Why, why, of course!” Tiberius exclaimed. “But I’m just a merchant skipper.”

“One new to us, sir. Let me say as well that a ship of ours returned from Hivernia on the morning tide, and its chief passengers will likewise be at the palace.”

Tiberius glanced at Aulus, saw strickenness, and cleared his throat. “Um, this is my son—”

“I understand, sir. He is invited too.”

Joy kindled a beacon.

The two put on their best clothes and went with the messenger for a guide. Along the way he pointed out sights till Aulus’s head whirled.

Four men flanked the entrance gate of the royal grounds, two in Ysan battle array, two in Roman. Beyond, labyrinthine paths among flowerbeds, hedges, topiaries, bowers seemed to create more room than was possible. The palace was of modest size, but the pride was boundless. Its side walls bore scenes of wild beasts in the forest. A bronze boar and bear guarded the main staircase. Above a copper roof swelled a dome, whereon the image of an eagle spread wings whose gilt blazed against sundown.

Passing through an anteroom, the visitors came into a chamber great and marble-pillared, frescoed with pictures of the four seasons, floor mosaic of a chariot race. Clerestory windows were duskening, but oil lamps and wax candles gave lavish light. Servants glided about refilling wine cups and offering titbits of food. Flute and harp trilled in a corner.

Only a few persons were on hand, none elaborately clad. Seated in chairs as if presiding over an occasion of state, they nonetheless
appeared quite at ease. A big, auburn-haired man with rugged features lifted his arm as the new guests entered. “Greeting,” he said. His Latin was plain-spoken, with a South Britannic overtone. “I’m Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, centurion in the Second, prefect of Rome, and—” he smiled—“King of Ys. I’d like to hear whatever you care to tell and try to answer your questions, but feel free to mingle with people. We’ll have a lantern bearer to take you back.”

He introduced the others. Two were female, two of his notorious nine wives. They conveyed no sense of being more than handsome middle-aged ladies—until they joined the conversation as outspokenly and intelligently as any man. A couple of male Ysans were present, an old scholar and the head of a mercantile house. A fairly young Redonian—lean, tough-looking with his fork beard and scarred cheek—was one of those in from Hivernia; Aulus caught his name at once, Rufinus, because it had been famous last year as somebody else’s. With him was a fellow not much older than Aulus, defiantly attired in a Scotic kilt and a saffron-dyed shirt secured at the throat by a penannular brooch.

“Sit down,” Gratillonius urged. “Drink. You aren’t on stage. This isn’t the Symposium, eh, Bodilis? Tell me, Captain Carsa, how was your voyage?”

He had a gift for putting company at ease: though Aulus suspected that when he administered a tongue-lashing, lightning sizzled blue. Before long, individuals were freely at converse with whomever they chose. Gratillonius drew Tiberius out about happenings in the South. Since Aulus already knew that, he shortly found himself off in a corner with Tommaltach.

That was the Scotian. His Latin was still somewhat broken, but had a musical lilt to it. Despite his having done battle in his home island, despite his being pagan and unlettered, his liveliness ranged so widely that Aulus felt like a child again. Yet Tommaltach did not patronize him.

—“Ah, you could do well among the girls of Ys, Carsa,” he laughed. His glance probed. Aulus’s frame was filling out into sturdiness; his countenance was broad, blunt-nosed, regular, beneath curly dark-brown hair. “Can you get away? The hunting’s better with two. I’m not talking of some copper-a-tumble whore, you understand; not but what such aren’t usually well worth it in Ys. I mean lusty servant women, hoping to marry someday but meanwhile ready for fun if they like you. They’re apt to saunter the streets in pairs—”

The Roman wished his face would not heat.

“You could be staying over a while,” Tommaltach said, “between two calls your ship makes. My friend Rufinus would take care of arrangements. Sure, and he’s a good-hearted man. Your dad should be happy, if you ask him right.” Seriously: “It’s more than pleasure this would be. It’s an e-du-cation. The learning, the folk from everywhere, the marvels, the magic—”

He broke off, turned, and stared. Silence fell upon the room. The girl who had entered, already more than half woman, was so beautiful.

In white raiment, garland of apple blossoms on the loose amber-colored hair, she flowed over the floor to Gratillonius. She murmured huskily in Ysan, then, observing the company, changed to excellent Latin: “Why, father, you didn’t tell me you expected guests. I could have left my Temple duties earlier.”

The King beamed. “I didn’t know you meant to spend the night here, darling. Wasn’t it to be with Maldunilis?”

“Oh, she only wants to lie about and eat sweetmeats. I
must
find a place of my own.” The girl checked herself, lifted a hand, and said gravely: “Welcome, honored sirs. May the Gods look upon you with kindness.”

“My daughter Dahut,” Gratillonius announced. “Captain Metellus Carsa, newly from Burdigala. His son… Aulus. I don’t believe you’ve met Tommaltach of Mumu, either. You should have, but it never chanced till now.”

Dahut kindled a smile.

Gratillonius laughed. “Well, why do you wait, little flirt? Go brighten their lives for the young men.”

Dahut lowered her eyes, raised them again, and demurely joined the elders. However, the time was not long before she was in their corner chatting with Tommaltach and the junior Carsa.

2

Summer lay heavy over the land. Westward, cloud masses loomed on the horizon, blue-shadowed white above a sea that shone as if burnished. Ys glittered like a jewel. Grass greened and softened the headlands, save where boulders or ancient stoneworks denied it. The heights leading east bore such wealth of leafage that most of the homes nestled in their folds were hidden. In between, the valley stretched lush and hushed. Warmth baked fragrance out of soil, plants, flowers. Bees droned through clover.

In the courtyard of the Sacred Precinct, two men fought. Wearing full Roman combat armor, they circled warily, probed, defended with shield or sword, sometimes rushed together for a moment’s fury. Their hobnails struck sparks from the slate flags. Neither getting past the defense of the other, they broke apart and resumed their stalking. They breathed hard. Sweat runneled down their faces and stung their eyes. The sun turned the metal they wore into furnaces.

Maeloch the fisher arrived on Processional Way. His stride jarred to a halt. He gaped.

Menservants were watching too, from the porch of the great red house that filled the opposite side of the square. Right and left, its ancillary buildings formed two more boundaries of the courtyard. Black,
all but featureless, they radiated that heat which the blood-colored lodge uttered to the vision. The fourth side opened onto the paving of the road. High above roofs, the Wood of the King lifted its crowns, an oakenshaw whose rough circle spanned some seven hundred feet, silence and shadow.

The mightiest of the trees grew at the middle of the courtyard. From the lowest bough of the Challenge Oak hung a round brazen shield, too big and heavy for use. Sunlight dazzled away sight of the wild, bearded visage molded on it, or the many dents made by the sledge hammer that hung beside.

Blows thudded. They did not rattle or clash. Maeloch eased. Both blades were cased in horsehide.

The slender, more agile man saw himself about to be forced against the bole. He turned on his heel to slip aside. Suddenly swift, the large man moved at him, not in a leap but in a pivot on widespread, bent legs that kept his footing always firm. His swordpoint slammed at the other’s knee and ran up the thigh below the chain mail. The struck man lurched and gasped a Britannic curse.

“Enough, Cynan!” called his opponent. “If this’d been real, you’d be bleeding to death now.”

“Well done, sir,” panted the other. “I’m glad you stopped short of my crotch.”

“Ha, never fear. I need my roadpounders entire. Besides, your wife would have my head.”

Cynan limped. “You did catch me a good one, sir. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more worthwhile practice today.”

“I’ve had plenty as is. Come, let’s go inside, get this tin off us, wash up and have a drink.”

Maeloch, whose Latin was scant, had gotten the drift. His rolling sailor’s gait bore him forward. “My lord King,” he said in Ysan, “I’ve sore need to talk with ye.”

Gratillonius removed his helmet. He knew this man, as he did every Ferrier of the Dead. “I’ll hold public court in a few days,” he answered.

The shaggy head shook. “Can’t wait, my lord. Aye, ye’re standing your Watch. Never kept ye from handling any business you felt like. And—I also deal with the Gods.”

Gratillonius met the unflinching gaze and smiled. “A stubborn lot, you fishers. Well, come along, then. Have a beaker while I get clean.”

“I thank ye,” said Maeloch, as he would have replied to an invitation from a fellow seaman.

The three mounted the stairs to the portico. Its columns were carved into images of Taranis and his attributes, wild boar, eagle, thunderbolt, oak tree. Beyond, the massive timbers and shake roof enclosed a feasting hall. Its pillars and wainscots were likewise carved, but hard to make out in the dimness. Age-eaten banners hung from the crossbeams like
bats. The fire-trenches in the clay floor lay empty. Nostrils were glad to inhale cool air.

Gratillonius and Cynan stripped and went on into the modernized section for a bath and fresh clothes. Maeloch accepted a goblet of ale and sat down on a bench built into a side. Three men carried the military gear out for cleaning and stowage. A fourth took a feather duster and went about in search of cobwebs.

Maeloch beckoned to him. “What Queen is here today?” he asked.

The servant halted. “None, sir.” Unlike his livery, his voice was subdued. A Ferrier of the Dead, in this house of the killers, raised too many ghosts.

“Why? He’s no weakling, our King. Besides, ’tis plain justice to them, one man with nine wives.”

“The Princess Dahut wanted to dwell here for the three days and nights of this month’s Watch. She wanted no grown woman about.”

“Dahut, ye say? What makes the child have such a wish?”

“Tis not for me to guess, sir. But her royal father agreed.”

“Aye, he can deny her naught, I hear. And who’d blame him for that? Where is she now?”

“In the Wood, I believe, sir. She’s hours on end in the Wood, both by daylight and moonlight.”

Maeloch frowned. “That could be dangerous. What if a sacred boar turned ugly? Nay, Grallon yields her too much there.”

“Pray pardon, sir, I must keep on with my work.”

Maeloch nodded, leaned back against the smoke-darkened relief of a scene in an ancient tale—the hero Belcar combatting the demonic mermaid Quanis—and pondered.

Lightly clad, Gratillonius emerged with Cynan. He clapped his hands. “Cold mead for two,” he called. “More ale for our guest if he wishes. Well, Maeloch, what would you of me?”

The seaman had not risen. “Best we speak under four eyes, my lord,” he replied.

“Hm, you are in a surly mood, nay? Then wait your turn. Sit down, Cynan. I’d like to talk about a couple of things,” Gratillonius said, pointedly, in Latin. “It was plain, stupid luck that you didn’t nail me earlier today with the shield-hooking trick. I’ve got to overcome my slackness about it. Who can tell what the next challenger will know?”

A man brought the mead, which had been cooled by leaving its bottle in a porous jar full of water. Cynan drank and spoke hurriedly. Despite his centurion’s protestations, he soon left.

Gratillonius dismissed the attendants and sat down on the bench beside Maeloch. “Well?” he asked.

The fisher drew breath. “This, my lord. We’re angry at ye in Scot’s Landing, for that ye had poor Usun and Intil flogged. I said I’d bring the grievance. Usun’s my shipmate.”

Gratillonius nodded. “I thought that was the trouble,” he said slowly. “’Flogging’ is the wrong word. Three cuts of an unleaded thong, across those turtle backs, couldn’t have hurt much. ’Twas meant for an example, a warning.”

“A disgrace!”

“Nay, now. How often have you decked a man who was unruly or foolish, or triced him up for a few tastes of a rope’s end, with no lasting grudges afterward?”

Maeloch’s huge fists knotted on his knees. “What harm had they done? In this year of poor catches, they took a boat; they fared down the peninsula; they brought back Roman-made wares to sell. But your spies were watching.”

“No spies were needed. Those two flouted the law with no special effort to hide what they were about.”

“What law? we’ve aye been free traders in Ys, till ye made that bloody decree. Grallon, I’m nay yet your foe. But I warn ye, ye’re going astray. Ye whipped two men and took away their goods. Ye had no right.”

Gratillonius sighed. “Hark, friend. Before Mithras, I wish I’d not had to do it. But they forced me. I’d made it clear as the pool at the Nymphaeum, henceforward our traders into Roman territory must go through the Roman customs. These men did not. Liefer than pay tax, they smuggled Ysan cloth to the Veneti, and took those wares in exchange. Let them count themselves lucky the Romans didn’t catch them at it. I punished them for the sake of every lad in Ys who’s tempted to try the same. If anyone gets arrested, I can do naught—naught, do you hear?—to save him.”