Gallicenae (48 page)

No guards followed. He had no need of any. Those men of his who met the new arrivals had taken weapons simply to mark his dignity. Soon he and his visitor were sauntering alone over the grass. Bees buzzed in clover, which nodded white heads in answer to what the wind whispered. A lark caroled high aloft.

“Now what would you be telling me?” Laidchenn asked.

Rufinus had rehearsed his speech in his mind, careful not to wax fulsome. “I have told how I carry greetings from Conual Corcc. In my baggage are gifts he charged me with bringing you. His affairs prosper, and he wishes the same for his foster-kinsman King Niall and yourself. I have much more to make known, but that can be said before everyone.

“I cannot call on Niall. First, the word they have down in Mumu is that he is making war on the Ulati and will not likely return until late in the autumn, or even winter. Second, it would be rash of me. I will not lie to you; that would cast shame on us both. Here I tell that I am a Gaul as I declared. But I live in Ys, whose King I serve, and my companions are warriors of his.”

“Ys!” burst out of Laidchenn. He stopped in midstride, swung around, stared and then glowered.

“Hear me, I beg you.”

“I must,” Laidchenn growled. “You are my guest.”

“Dismiss me if you will; but first please hear me out. Remember, I come by way of King Conual. By and large, Mumu has had good dealings with Ys; and you yourself are a man of Mumu, are you not? My mission was to talk about furtherance of trade and other such matters of common interest. Hearing of Niall’s absence, I thought perhaps the Gods had brought me to Ériu in the same year. Well does the King of Ys know what a bitter foe he has in King Niall. He does not share that feeling. He would far rather make peace and become friends. My thought was that here I had a chance to fare north and speak with leading men, who might afterward convey my message, and meanwhile give me an idea as to what hope there is for reconciliation. Conual did not believe it possible, but he approved my intention, and suggested I seek you first, you being the wisest.” The scar on Rufinus’s cheek contorted with his smile. He spread his arms, baring his breast. “Here I am.”

Laidchenn eased his stance. He nodded heavily. “I fear Conual Corcc is right. Niall of the Nine Hostages does not forgive.”

“Still, enemies also often exchange words.”

“True.” Laidchenn ruffled his beard and pondered. “May long life be glorious Niall’s, he who has been so generous to me. Yet the Mórrigu has Her own dark ways—as all the Gods do Theirs—and each of us must someday die, and new men bring new times…. Knowledge is a drink that never quenches need for itself.” Abruptly, enthusiasm blazed from him. “And you dwell in Ys! Ys of the hundred towers!” He seized both Rufinus’s hands in his. “You shall stay with me as long as you desire, and we will talk, and—and maybe I can do more than that.”

“You are—how does one say
‘magnanimous?’
—yours is a spirit as large as the sky.” It was an odd feeling to Rufinus to realize he meant it.

Thereafter he set himself to charm the natives. That was easy. For the most part, he told about the fabulous city. They bore no special hostility to it. Some had lost kinsman in Niall’s fleet, but that was
fifteen years ago, seeming now a whim of war and weather; few remained whose memories of the perished were sharp. They would follow Niall if bidden, but the undying hatred was his alone.

Simply by virtue of what Rufinus had learned in Ys and the Empire—he, the runaway serf, bandit, scout, who had picked up his information in fragments, like a magpie—he was reckoned an ollam. Laidchenn conversed familiarly with him, Tigernach eagerly and deferentially, the visiting chieftains and judges almost shyly, everybody else humbly. At meat he received the chine of the animal, second to the thigh served kings and poets; and sat at the upper end of the hall, on Laidchenn’s right, his seat just slightly lower; and had the privilege of passing to his host every third ale horn, while Laidchenn’s wife sent each third of his to him. He could go wherever he chose, even to the holiest groves, springs and rocks. His counsel and blessing were worth much more than any material goods.

His followers, the marines, benefited. Their company much sought despite their meager stock of words, they made merry with drink, women, hunts, rides, rambles, athletic contests. Rufinus’s abstention from love-making raised no doubts about his virility, but instead increased the awe of him. Thus it was doubly effective that most of the time he was cheerful, amiable, as ready to greet the lowliest tenant or rumple the hair of the littlest child as to sit with the mighty and the wise.

In a few days he felt ready to drop a hint. Delightful though this was, he said, summer was wearing on. If he wished to return home with his business completed, he had better go about it, or else risk being weatherbound.

“You are right, my dear,” Laidchenn replied. “I have been thinking the same. In the absence of Niall and his three oldest sons, their brother Carpre has the royal duties. He was a colt in the year of the evil, and so has scant ill will toward Ys. Mind you, I would not be saying anything against his faithfulness; but it is no secret that he chafes under his father’s hand and longs to win glory for himself. That whole brood does. The eagle’s blood is in them.”

“Do you think, then, he will receive me?” Rufinus asked.

“He shall that,” Laidchenn replied, “for I myself will go along with you.”

3

In the high King’s absence, Carpre could not reside at Temir, only visit it for ceremonies. Progressing among the homes the family owned around Mide, he was at present a day’s journey from the sacred hill, beyond a river which the travelers crossed on a rude wooden bridge. That valley was very fair, with much forest for hunters and swineherds. Similar to Laidchenn’s, the estate stood by itself in a great clearing to which roads led between the trees. A palisaded earthen wall, a rath,
ringed it in, causing people to seek the grassy space outside for their sports.

Carpre, a young man with the blond good looks said to be his father’s, took Rufinus in at Laidchenn’s request. His reluctance the man from Ys deemed feigned. Though the prince doubted Niall would ever take any éricc and honor price for what had happened, and therefore no maqq Nélli could—while Niall lived—nevertheless he would consider Rufinus a herald, untouchable in anger, and hear him out. Through the days that followed, Carpre asked questions and listened as ardently as the rest of the Gaels. Again the Ysans had no dearth of frolicsome fellowship.

Again Rufinus kept aloof from it. Besides maintaining the dignity he found so useful, he did not care to waste time in romping, especially with women—time all too limited, during which he might accomplish something for Gratillonius and could at the least gather intelligence. Let him bring back such a bird, to lay at the feet of his master; let him see a smile and hear a “Well done”; then he could go rejoice in those ways that were his.

The blend of rigor and geniality continued to serve him well. At first Laidchenn showed him around, when they were free to stroll. On the second afternoon, coming back from a hallowed dolmen in the woods, they saw half a dozen men being led out the portal of the rath under guard. It was a leaden, drizzly day. Rufinus stopped. “Who are those?” he wondered.

Laidchenn frowned. “The hostages from Lagini,” he said.

Rufinus looked closer. The men had nothing on but tunics of the roughest material, ragged and scruffy; hair and beards were unkempt, unwashed; faces were gaunt, limbs lank, skin sallow. The equal number of guards urged them offside and leaned contemptuous on spears while the prisoners began dispiritedly exercising.

“Oh?” Rufinus murmured. He had seen the other hostages whom Carpre had charge of, well fed, well clad, honorably treated. “Have they done wrong, that they must live like penned animals?”

“They have not,” Laidchenn sighed, “unless it be the chief of them, and he a high King’s son. He led a terrible raid. Niall avenged that on his entire country, yet requires this punishment, too. He knows I think it wrong. A headstrong and unforgiving man, he, indeed, indeed.”

Rufinus felt a tingle go up his spine. He knew a little about the antagonism between the Lagini and their neighbors of Condacht and Mide—foremost Mide, whose founders had carved with the sword most of its territory out of theirs. “Tell me more, if you please,” he said.

Laidchenn explained, laconically because they were standing in the wet and cold. At the end, Rufinus asked, “Would it be possible for to go talk with that—Yo-khith, is that how you pronounce his name?”

“Why would you?” inquired Laidchenn, surprised.

Rufinus shrugged. “Oh,” he said carelessly, “you know how it is laid on me to harvest whatever knowledge I can for my lord.” He laughed. “Who can tell but that Eochaid will someday be the go-between for a real peace with Niall?”

“On that day, swine will fly,” snorted Laidchenn. He considered. “Well, I see no harm in your curiosity. Come.”

The hostages paused to stare, like their warders, as the two approached. Rufinus’s heartbeat quickened. The one whom Laidchenn had pointed out, Eochaid, was beautiful. Three discolored patches marred his face, as well as the thinness and grime of captivity, but underneath that it could have been an Apollo’s, straight nose, sculptured lips, deep-set eyes whose blue seemed the more brilliant against milky skin and midnight hair. He had kept his tall body better than his companions theirs, doubtless by forcing some kind of gymnastics upon it while shut away; muscles moved feline over the bones. Rufinus felt his sullenness was not from despair, but defiance.

Laidchenn accosted the guards. They could not refuse a poet. Rufinus stepped over to Eochaid. “Greeting, King’s son,” he ventured.

Breath hissed between teeth. “Who are you that hail me?” The voice sounded rusty.

Aware of listeners, Rufinus declared himself. “I fear I have no ransom for you or anything like that,” he added. “But as a foreigner, who is also a herald, I may be able to carry a word from you, and a word back, if you like.”

The rest of the Lagini stood by like sick oxen. Eochaid snarled. “What is there to say between Niall and myself, or between myself and that man yonder whose son disfigured me with a satire so that I can never become a king?”

“Well, you can perhaps become free again,” Rufinus answered. “Is that not desirable?”

Eochaid slumped. “Why should they ever let me go?”

“Perhaps to carry a message yourself. In Gallia and Britannia, we have suffered from the Saxon. Will his long ships never seek the shores of Ériu? Might it not be best that the Celts form alliance while they still can?” Rufinus reached to clap Eochaid’s shoulder. A rent in the garment let his hand touch the flesh beneath. Despite the weather, it was warm, not feverish, but hot. Rufinus squeezed. “Think about it,” he said. “I would like to speak further with you, if they let me.”

He turned and departed, acutely conscious of the gazes that followed. At his side, Laidchenn muttered, “There was too much wisdom in your talk, my dear. Nobody will hearken.”

Rufinus scarcely heard. His head was awhirl. It was not that he had any scheme. He had been acting on impulse. But maybe, maybe he could fish a prize for Gratillonius out of these gurly waters. And in any case, by Venus—no, by Belisama—it was sin to mistreat someone that beautiful!

In the course of the next several days, he sought out Eochaid whenever the Lagini were led forth. The hostage’s moroseness soon melted. He became heartbreakingly grateful for news, gossip, advice, japes, whatever Rufinus offered. His fellow captives emerged a bit from their apathy, and the keepers enjoyed listening. All were disappointed when Rufinus asked permission to draw Eochaid aside where they could whisper, because he wished to put questions about the doings in Dun Alinni which Eochaid might not answer in the hearing of foemen. The chief of the guards gave his consent anyway. That was not stupidity. Besides his religious respect for a herald and ollam, he did not see how a meaningful conspiracy was possible.

Nor had Rufinus any in mind. He was merely laying groundwork for something he might well never build. And, of course, he got to stand with arms around Eochaid, feeling the thin but muscular body, cheek against cheek. His pulse throbbed.

What he asked caused Eochaid to say, “This is nothing they do not already know here.”

“Doubtless,” Rufinus answered. “What we have done is gotten the right to step away like this again. Tell nobody.” He tightened his embrace, savoring the warmth. “The time may come when we have real business.” He let go. “Be of high heart, my friend.”

Throughout his stay he had cultivated the Midach lords he met. A number of them openly wished matters were different. Yet they were sworn to their King, and clear was to see that while he lived there could be no peace with Ys.

The enemy of my enemy is my ally, Rufinus thought, over and over. He tried to imagine how Niall could threaten the city, or any place in Armorica, as long as the strength endured which Gratillonius had raised on land and sea. He failed. Nevertheless—contingencies—and Niall was certainly a scourge of Britannia, Gratillonius’s homeland. If he could not be done away with, the next best service to civilization would be to keep him occupied in this island. Would it not? Today he was triumphant (insofar as barbarians could be said to have triumphs) in the North of Hivernia; he was at ease with the West and the South; what was left to oppose him but the East, the Lagini’s kingdom?

“Nonsense,” Rufinus mumbled to himself in his lonely bed. “You know perfectly well the situation’s more complicated than that. His younger sons are sure to go out conquering on their own, whether the old man will or nay. They’ll attack other parts of the Ulati’s country, and maybe parts of Condacht. He’ll have enough to fret about…. Still, if the Lagini can add to his woes—his main hostage from them is Eochaid. The rest are well-born but don’t count too much. Eochaid, though, free again—Eochaid, young stallion loosed to gallop, blessed by Epona—haw!” he gibed. Who did he think he was? Sophocles, or whatever they called the playwright whom Bodilis had spoken of?