The Dog and the Wolf (33 page)

“Nay, you speak madness,” she protested.

“What? You’d have me obey him?”

“Not that either. My friend, dear friend, my—my brother—” She clutched his free hand. “Only be careful. And stay your wrath, I beg you. For your own sake and, aye, for Julia’s and my father’s. And even mine.”

He set the cup down and fingered his knife. “Hur-r, I suppose I can come afoot and see you unbeknownst. ’Tis a short while till I leave, anyway. But how ’twill gall!”

She nodded. “I’m angry myself. I’ll be casting the wands to see whether—Yet because of those others, and simple prudence, we’ll do naught harmful, either of us. Will you swear to that?”

He shook his head. “I’ll give you my word for this span of time. After I return, what I do will hang on what happens. If that sniveler stays in my way, I’ll smash him.”

“Or I will make an end of him myself, should he force me to it,” she said, a hiss in the words.

1

“You are most hospitable, Senator,” said Q. Domitius Bacca. “It encourages. In all candor, the governor and I had feared a certain amount of … reluctance. But clearly everyone present has the interests of Rome paramount in his heart—or hers, my lady. Excellent. They are the interests of civilization itself, you know.”

Wind hooted and dashed rain across roof tiles. Though the hour was at midafternoon, murkiness filled windows and sneaked around the flicker of wax candles. The hypo-caust in Apuleius’s house had overheated the triclinium. Gratillonius longed to be outside, alone with the honest harshness of autumn.

Shadows deepened the lines in Bacca’s gaunt visage. His glance went to and fro around the party reclining, antique fashion, at the dining table: Apuleius, neat gray man nearsightedly squinting; Corentinus, whose rawboned length fitted ill into a gold-trimmed robe suitable for this occasion; Gratillonius, who looked trapped in his own best garb; Runa, modestly clad and given to fluttering her
lashes downward, but with hair upswept in such wise as to show off swan throat and ivory complexion, the blue-blackness of it caught by a shell comb inlaid with nacre.

“We are delighted ourselves,” said Apuleius without warmth, “that the procurator has deigned to visit us in person.”

“Ah, but you deserve the favor.” Bacca took a sip of wine. “Aquilo is by no means insignificant; and after the tragedy of Ys, Christian charity requires that the government take Confluentes under its special, loving ward.”

Corentinus cleared his throat. Gratillonius suspected that was to head off an oath from his seafaring days. “The Church might best judge what’s charity and what isn’t,” said the bishop. “Suppose we get straight to business.”

Bacca raised his brows. “At our meal? That scarcely shows respect for the tribunes generous welcome.” He smiled and nodded toward Runa. “Nor for our lady.”

In this light it was hard to tell whether she flushed or not. Gratillonius knew how she resented being patronized, and admired the restraint of her reply: “Since the procurator has done me the honor of requesting my presence, as if I were a man, I should take whatever my share may be in the discussion—though God forbid I go beyond what beseems a woman.”

Maybe he didn’t admire, Gratillonius thought. This was no time to toady. What had become of the independence she claimed so often from him? Anger boiled acrid in his belly.

“Well, perhaps I should make my reasons for that quite clear,” Bacca said. “The word I bring—the Imperial decree concerning Confluentes, and the governor’s intended measures for carrying it out—it means great and sudden changes in people’s lives. You leaders must guide them, keep them in paths of virtue and obedience. This will admittedly be difficult. I have come to explain, aid, and oversee the beginnings. Ysans were used to consulting with their wives, and believed their Queens had supernatural powers. Now, of course, they know the truth. But old habits die hard; and I am sure the women do have counsel as well as influence to lend us. My information is that you,
my lady, stand highest among them in both rank and regard. Therefore we need your help.”

Apuleius cast a glance at Gratillonius. “Two others were princesses,” he reminded.

“I know,” said Bacca. “But—correct me if I am wrong—my understanding is that one of them is very near her time. If nothing else, it would be unkind to make demands on her beyond the holy ones of motherhood. The second is … unavailable. Is that right, Gratillonius?”

How much have his spies told him? swept through Nemeta’s father. Too damned much, for certain. If I could run a sword through that slippery windpipe!

It would be useless. Worse than useless. Gratillonius sagged onto his elbow. He made his head nod.

“Well, then,” Bacca continued, geniality undiminished, “I think a preliminary conference between myself and you, the key persons in these little communities, is desirable. I can spell out the terms of the decree and answer questions. Together we can plan how to proceed. For it will, I repeat, be difficult at first. Beneficent in the long run, as the Emperor in his wisdom well knew; but in the early stages, a test of your capabilities and, may I say, your loyalty.” He found his target across the table. “Yours especially, Gratillonius.”

2

Once, beyond the Wall of Hadrianus, a detachment he had led forth on a scouting mission marched into ambush. The Romans fought their way to a hillcrest and formed up, but the wild men were many and the centurion could hope for no more than to take a number of them with him. While the enemy swirled and howled about, gathering for a rush, he looked through rain at the painted bodies and wet iron, and wondered where the years of his life were gone.

Providentially, a larger band from the Sixth, under Drusus, heard the racket and quick-stepped toward it. All of a sudden a Roman standard blew brilliant above the
heather, a tuba sounded, and the javelins flew. Gratillonius took his men back down, and the squadrons cut themselves free.

Now he stood on another high place and yonder stood Drusus, but there could be no rescue, not for either of them, ever again. They had not even any foes they could kill. And where had the years gone?

This market day shone bright. Clouds scudded over the blue, wavelets ran upon rain puddles, the woods tossed and distantly roared as wind bit into them, leaves broke free of yonder red-brown-yellow minglement and scrittled across fields, the last migratory birds trekked aloft with cries ringing as cold as the air, all the world seemed to be in departure. That, at least, was right, thought Gratillonius.

From the top step of the old manor house, his basilica that had been, he saw his people that had been. Here and there a face leaped from the crowd into his vision, like a blow on the shield he no longer carried.

Those were Suffete Councillors of his in Ys—Ramas Tyri, who spoke for the artisans; Hilketh Eliuni of the carters; master mariner Bomatin Kusuri, he of the Celtic tattoos and sweeping mustaches, who had fared overland with his King. Close to them was Amreth Taniti, captain of marines, lately grubbing the soil and the bitterness of it eating him away. Olath Cartagi, ironmaker, nourished a cheerfulness that was about to be taken from him. Maeloch and his woman Tera had elbowed to the front, as near Gratillonius as they could get. Cadoc Himilco was at their side, forgetful of status, half of him off with Julia where she lay in labor.

They trusted their King. And so did others. He made out new settlers, Vellano of the Redones, Riwal from Britannia, and more. He recognized Bannon, headman of Dochaldun, with fellow Osismii who had heard that this day’s market would deal in omens. Even the numerous Aquilonians stared expectant.

Some persons were missing. Gratillonius didn’t know whether he wished they were here or not. Nemeta, off in her pagan hermitage. Evirion Baltisi, supposedly among the Northmen if he lived. Rufinus, whom Maeloch had ferried to Mumu in Hivernia, where he would spend the
next months gleaning intelligence on Niall of the Nine Hostages—for whatever good that might do now—

Bacca leaned slightly toward Gratillonius and said in his ear, “I suggest you commence.” The latter forced a nod. Bacca assumed an erect stance. In his toga he was like a marble pillar. Did Runa watch from within the house? No doubt. She’d been so gracious to the procurator, so attentive to his every word. Gratillonius had gone riding, chopped firewood, busied himself in his workshop.

Well, get it over with. He raised his right arm. The buzz and stir before him died out. His voice rolled forth.

Surprised, he found it hurt less than the rehearsals in his mind. He felt himself almost outside the thing that spoke.

“People of Confluentes—” He must use Latin while Bacca listened, who had no Ysan nor, likely, Gallic; for Bacca would report. “—of the whole municipality of Aquilo—” How far did those bounds go? The Imperial will was that this entire region come under close control. “I have the honor to present to you the procurator of your province—” That was the proper form, wasn’t it, for a lord of state? “—decided I should give you the news, rather than one of your officials, because you’re most familiar with me—” They must hear it from his mouth, which had made such brave noises earlier, that he surrendered.

“Rejoice! In his wisdom and compassion, the Emperor Honorius has been pleased to receive us wholly among the Romans. By his decree, we are all of us, men, women, and children, formerly mere foederates from Ys—we are full citizens of Rome.’

Shouts. Groans. A few cheers. Much stunned silence. Hurry on, hold their attention, keep them in hand.

“—I am dismissed as tribune. That title has become meaningless—” Not really.

“Nor, of course, can I or any citizen be King, in this great Republic. You may no longer call me that. Please don’t embarrass me and break the law—” Maeloch spat on the ground in plain sight of Bacca.

“—I am a curial of Aquilo, by appointment. My special responsibility is to those citizens who were once Ysan subjects. Under the tribune Apuleius, as directed by our
Governor Glabrio in Turonum, I have many duties for your well-being—

“—collect the taxes—

“—maintenance of public order and legality—

“—runaway serfs and slaves identified and returned to their proper places—

“—no more illicit relationships with outlaws in the wilderness. The government intends to rid Armorica of them. We must do our part—”

Bomatin folded arms and glared at his old friend. Bannon clutched the haft of his knife; he had spears at home.

Gratillonius stretched a smile across his face. “Now none of this can happen fast,” he said, and heard his tone grow nearly natural. “Go on about your daily lives. Thanks to the Emperor, you have a security you didn’t before. True, the taxes are high, but the needs of the state are pressing. Senator Apuleius, Bishop Corentinus, and I, well see to it that nobody is destroyed. We’ll arrange terms, grant loans, that sort of thing. You know us; you know we’ll look after you. We don’t plan to make any immediate arrests, either Everybody who wants to square himself with the law will have his chance. Stay calm. You’re Romans, with the rights of Romans.”

He cast a glance at Bacca. The man remained impassive. Gratillonius had won permission to add this slight comfort to his speech—he never would have if Corentinus and Apuleius hadn’t thrown their weight on his side—but he’d departed from the prepared text, because he felt sure it would have driven the wedge between him and the people deeper yet. Not that he’d said anything forbidden; but Bacca might object to how he said it.

He caught no hint either way. Looking back to the assembly, he finished, “That’s all. Ill hear whatever you want to tell me in future, and if you have a legitimate complaint I’ll try to do something about it, but for now, this is all. Hail and farewell.” The wind scattered his words with the dead leaves.

3

He shut it out when he closed the door of Cadoc’s house behind him. His son-in-law was already in the foreroom, having sped there immediately after the meeting. Fine raiment, though rumpled and sweat-stained, was garish amidst rush-strewn clay floor, roughly plastered walls, thatch above ceilingless rafters. Tallow candles guttered against twilight seeping in through the membranes across windows. A charcoal brazier gave some warmth but strengthened the stench.

Cadoc sprang from his stool. “Welcome, sir,” he greeted unevenly, in Latin. “G-good of you to come.”

“She’s my daughter,” Gratillonius answered in Ysan. “How fares she?”

“It goes, the midwife said, it goes.” Cadoc smote fist in palm. “But so slowly!”

“No more than usual for a first birthing,” Gratillonius told him, and hoped he spoke truth. “She’s a healthy lass.”

“I’ve been praying. I’ve made vows to the saints.” Cadoc mustered determination. “If you did likewise—”

Gratillonius shrugged. “Would the saints heed an outsider? It might turn them hostile.”

Cadoc shuddered.

“Be at ease,” Gratillonius counselled. “Men perforce abide these times.” He grinned a bit. “Well do I know.”

The stare he got made him realize his mistake. “See here,” he continued at speed, “you should take your mind off what you can’t help, and we’ve this moment alone. I’d have come sooner, but folk thrust around me, plucked my sleeve, gabbled and sobbed and yelled. ’Twas like being a wisent set on by a pack of hounds.”

Cadoc ran tongue over lips. “They w-were wrathful, then?”

“Not at me. I misspoke myself. I meant that they … clung.” Through Gratillonius’s head growled Maeloch’s voice,
“By every God there may be, ye be still the King of Ys.”
And Maeloch’s Tera had flung her stout arms about
him and quickly, savagely kissed him on the mouth. He gusted a sigh. “How can I make them wary? We’re off on a foreign road.”

“The road of Rome,” said Cadoc slowly. “I understand. They must learn the way to walk it, and … you must be their teacher.”

“If I can.” Gratillonius began pacing, side to side, fingers clenched against each other at his back. Footfalls thudded, rushes rustled. “I fear that what Rome orders me to do will slay what faith most of them seem yet to have in me—a faith I suspect surprised Bacca, and one he will seek to make me destroy.”