The Dog and the Wolf (26 page)

For a space they took each other’s measure. Cadoc saw a burly man, plainly clad in Gallic shirt and breeches, grizzled auburn hair and beard close-cropped after the Roman style, face weathered and, of late, heavily graven around the gray eyes and high-arched nose. Gratillonius noted features also darkened by the sun that had bleached blond locks, but still smooth, clean-shaven; the shabby clothes decked litheness.

“Well,’ he said at length, in Latin, raising his cup. “Your health. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you, sir.” The reply was deferential without being servile.

“On the whole, I’m pleased,” Gratillonius said. “You come of good stock. Your father was a fine man, and my friend.”

“I’ll try to be worthy of your kinship, sir.”

Gratillonius regarded Cadoc over the rim of his goblet. “That’s what I want to talk about. This is not much of a surprise, you know.”

The visitor smiled. “Julia warned me you observe more than you let on.”

“I keep my thoughts to myself till they’re wanted. How do you propose to support a family?”

Startled, Cadoc said, “I have em-em-employment, sir.”

“As a carpenter. Not a gifted one. And the demand is dropping as we fill our most urgent needs. What else can you do?”

Cadoc bit his lip. “I’ve considered that, believe me, sir.
I am educated, can read, write, figure, have knowledge of literature, history, philosophy. In Ys I w-was acclaimed for … horsemanship. I brought down game in Osismiic woods—”

“You learned what it became a Suffete of Ys to learn,” Gratillonius interrupted. “That didn’t have much to do with what concerns Rome. Nor was it in any way unusual. Confluentes has a glut of people who could be scribes or tutors. The best of them might make fair-to-middling amanuenses, but Apuleius and Corentinus already have theirs, and who else hereabouts wants any?”

Cadoc flushed at the bluntness. “I’ll earn my keep.”

“Evirion Baltisi’s venture bids fair to prosper. Maybe he’ll take you on.”

“No!” snapped anger. Then: “I’ m sorry, sir. Y-you may not be aware there’s bad blood—no, not that, I suppose—call it, uh, ill feeling—between him and me. I’m willing to forgive, b-but will he accept?”

“He may think the forgiveness is owing him,” said Gratillonius dryly. “I was aware, and only probing you. I have thought of something, but it calls for wit, strength, and boldness.”

Cadoc’s countenance brightened. “What, sir? Please!”

Gratillonius rose, set his cup on a table, paced to and fro with hands behind his back. “Exploring and surveying. See here. Aside from a few Roman cities, Gallic settlements, the croplands and meadows around, the roads between, most of middle Armorica is wilderness. Hunters, charcoal burners, and so forth, they know their own parts of it, but nobody knows the whole. To all intents and purposes, it’s impassable. If you wanted to go from, say, Venetorum to Fanum Martis, you’d have to travel around through Vorgium or Redonum, adding days you could maybe ill afford. It didn’t matter when Rome guarded the coastline and you could go by sea, but that’s past. The barbarians ravage one section and are off before soldiers can arrive from another. For a while I got Ys to take the lead, and a naval force kept our waters safe, but now that’s gone too. Besides, the Germani are pressing on Rome’s eastern land frontiers. Again and again they break through.
Before many more years, they may well be spilling this far west.

“Whatever defense we can raise—I’m looking into the matter—it’s got to have mobility, interior lines of communication and transport, or its no real use. What I have in mind is ways through the forests and over the heaths. No proper roads, we haven’t the manpower to build them; just trails, but suitable for men, horses, maybe light carts on some. First we have to learn the country and decide what the practical routes are. Then we clear, grade, bridge where there isn’t a ford, maintain—You follow me?”

Cadoc stood. “Oh, wonderful! I am to pioneer this?”

“We’ll try you out. It’ll be a trial of the whole idea. I’ll teach you the basics of surveying, requirements of terrain, and so forth. Rufinus and his men will give you some companionship and guidance, but that’s necessarily limited. You’ll be largely on your own. Not the same as roving afoot in search of small game, as I know you’ve done hereabouts when you had free time. Deeper in are outlaws, woods dwellers hostile to strangers, wild beasts—trolls and spooks, for all I know—as well as nature’s traps, swamps, streams, storms, sickness. You can easily die, and your body never recovered. You’ll get no glory, because we have to do this quietly; the Imperium won’t, and doesn’t like being bypassed. I wouldn’t have told you about it if I didn’t have reason to think you can keep your mouth shut. On the other hand, you’ll be pretty well paid, in honest money, out of the Aquilonian treasury. I’ve settled that with Apuleius. You’ll be helping secure your family’s future. What say? Are you interested?”

“Of course!” Impulsively, Cadoc embraced Gratillonius. “Thank you, thank you!”

The older man smiled a bit. “Save your gratitude till you come home from your first field trip. You may find it in short supply then.”

“I won’t. I know I won’t. And—I’ll be meeting those backwoods folk—I can bring them the Word.”

“What?”

“The good news. Tell them about Christ. N-not that I’m an apostle or anything like that, I’m not worthy, but if God wills, I can open a way for those who are.”

“Hm.” Gratillonius frowned, shrugged, and grunted, “If it doesn’t antagonize the natives, or otherwise hinder your work, all right.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t let it do that.” Cadoc beamed. “I’ll have my Julia to care for, and our children. Your grandchildren, sir.” He saw the other visage freeze and exclaimed, “I’m sorry. I d-didn’t mean—It was tragic what happened.”

“Not altogether,” Gratillonius answered curtly. “Sit down and I’ll tell you more about what I’ll expect of you.”

—Midsummer noontide was warm and clear. Fragrances from the forest breathed over fields where grain ripened. A lark caroled on high. Finches twittered near the ground. From Aquilo’s eastern gate streamed and chattered Confluentians, homeward bound for festivities after the mass avowal and service at the church. Breasting their tide, Gratillonius entered the city and made his way among people equally cheerful. It was a day for rejoicing. Apuleius had invited him to a banquet in honor of his daughter and her new husband. The last thing she had done for him was to wash and pipe-clay a tunic, mend his one colorful cloak, and wax his best sandals, that he might make a little of the showing she told him he deserved.

Citizens hailed him respectfully and tried to give way, but inevitably he was sometimes jostled. Passing the church, he felt a contact and ignored it until that person took his arm. Looking around, he saw Runa, clad in a dark green gown that set off the fair skin and raven hair. “Why, greeting,” he said.

“Hail.” She smiled. “Shame on you, that were not here for the wedding.”

“I am not Christian.”

“You could have been with the catechumens like me, to watch ere the Mysteries commenced.”

He wondered why she had hung around after the door to the sanctum was closed, and then after the service was over. With some difficulty, he explained: “I thought best not remind Julia of what I am, on this day of her days. It distresses her.”

“Yet you come to the feast.”

“That’s different. You too?”

She nodded. Light shimmered in the tortoise shell comb that held her locks coiled and piled. The gesture presented him with a view of her throat, swanlike, perhaps her best feature. “The senator was kind enough. He likes my work for him.”

He could think of no more conversation.

“But it grows wearisome,” she went on as he failed to respond. “When ’tis done—Mayhap you’ll put in a word for me. I know I can stir his interest myself. Yet he may feel shy of maintaining me for what I propose, when there are so many demands on the city’s coffers and his own purse.”

Gratillonius sympathized. He could imagine few tasks more dismal than copying books. “What is it?”

“A history of Ys, from the founding to the end. They should be remembered, those splendors and great deeds.”

He wondered at the vividness with which there came back to him a girl who sang beneath the moon. “I
remember Ys, though I have never see her
—”

“Should they not?” Runa persisted into his silence.

He shook himself. “Aye. And you ought to find the work interesting.”

“We can hope for the bishops approval, I believe. He may even be willing to underwrite it. The fall of the proud city holds a powerful moral lesson.” She sensed his distaste and hurried on: “But really, what I want is to keep what we loved alive in the minds of men. Save our dear lost ones from oblivion.”

“A vast undertaking.”

“ Twill require years. First I must talk with every survivor, and whoever else has recollections—soon, lest death hush them. You foremost, Gratillonius. Though I pray you’ll long abide to ward us.”

He winced. “Speaking of that … will be hard.”

“But you owe your Ys, your Queens, children, friends their memorial. I’ll go gently. We can do it a little at a time.”

He sighed, looked straight before him, and said, “First get Apuleius’s agreement.”

“You will help me win that? We’ve worked well together, you and I. We can again. Say you will.”

He nodded. “Aye. Though best wait till the hour is right for broaching it.”

“Certes. And by then your wounds may have healed more. Gratillonius,” she said softly, “you must not remain fast bound in misery. You have a life before you.”

“I have my work.”

“And happiness to regain.” Her fingers tightened the least bit on his arm.

They reached the tribune’s house. Skirts flew white around slenderness as Verania, heedless of propriety, darted forth onto the portico. “Oh, you’re here!” she cried. “I’d begun to fear you were sick or, or something.”

“Why, your father told me to come about noon,” he replied, smiling. A chill within him seemed to thaw.

The maiden flushed. “It felt later,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen you for so long.” Confused by her own forwardness, she stood in his path on the stairs. He halted before her.

“I’ve been busy,” he said. “Today—”

“Your host and hostess await you,” said Runa firmly, and guided him on past.

1

Late on a drizzly day, Bannon of Dochaldun reached the cabin. Beyond its guardian oak the forest faded off into grayness. Amidst that quiet, the Stegir seemed to run loud past reeds and over stones; yet the sound came somehow muffled. Bannon shivered a bit in the dank chill. Water dripped from leaves, the bridle of his horse, the ends of his mustache. His clothes hung heavy.

Dismounting, he knocked. At first he thought the one who opened the door was a boy, gracile in tunic and breeks; then he looked into the thin face and at the hair
that tumbled past the shoulders, the hue of flame, like a shout through the gloom all around. Why should a witch who lived by herself not dress like a male, at least for getting about in the woods? he thought. It was better than skirts. … Behind her glowed a couple of lamps and a fire banked on the hearthstone.

“Greeting,” he said awkwardly, and named himself. “You are Nemeta, daughter of King Gradlon?”

“I am,” she replied in his own Osismiic. “If you come in peace, enter. If not, go.” She touched a leather bag on a thong around her neck. It must hold charmstuffs. To its outside was sewn the skull of a vole.

“Peace, peace, lady,” Bannon said in haste. “Let me but care for my beasts.” He had been leading a remount.

“I must have a shelter put up for their kind,” Nemeta remarked. “You are the first to arrive riding. Bring your gear in where ’tis dry.”

Bannon tethered the horses at a spot with grazing and entered the cabin. It was snug but murky. He glimpsed household wares and stores at the rear, food hung from crossbeams, an ale keg. Closer by was a shelf whereon stood objects from which he averted his glance; staring at sign-carved sticks and bones or at queerly shaped clay vessels was not for the likes of him. He hung cloak and coat on a peg and, at her gesture, took a stool by the fire. “Ah-h,” he said, and held hands to the warmth. Smoke stung his eyes before it drifted sullenly out of the roofed vent above.

“Drink,” invited Nemeta, and dipped him a wooden cup of ale. She perched herself opposite. The big green eyes caught what light there was and glimmered. He thought of a cat watchful at a mousehole.

A draught or two cleared his throat. “I am the headman of my village,” he began.

“I know,” she said.

Had she heard? Dochaldun was a mere cluster of dwellings, off by itself in some acres cleared around a hill, a long day’s ride from Aquilo. Its folk mainly kept pigs, which mainly lived on mast, though they also had cows and poultry and raised oats. They seldom went anywhere, save at certain times of year to the gatherings of several
communities like their own. A person come from magical Ys less than two years ago seemed unlikely to remember even the name, if it had happened to cross her ears.

“They say you know much,” Bannon ventured.

“Your kine are falling sick,” Nemeta declared coolly. “You wish me to cure them, as I did for the herds at Vindoval and Stag Run.”

He could not tell whether fear or gladness made his heart rattle. Sure it was that a chill pringled through his backbone and out into his fingertips. “You are indeed a witch,” he breathed.

Her smile was wry. “I may have guessed. Murrains go about. I am not all-wise. How did you learn of me?”

He summoned courage. If the stories were true, she had wrought well and harmed nobody. They told of each animal led to a fire into which she had cast several herbs; the touch of a wand; a snippet of hair cut off and burnt while she spoke in an unknown tongue; within a day the creature recovering, and those that were healthy staying so.

“’Twas a rumor,” Bannon explained. “I had a son of mine track it down. Along the way he heard of lesser deeds you’ve done. You’ll soon be famous, lady.”

“Are you Christians yonder?” she asked.

“We are not,” he answered, taken aback. “Would you have us be?”