The Dog and the Wolf (54 page)

Gratillonius bent forward, elbows on thighs, hands clasped between knees, head low. “I was afraid of that. But I had to come try.”

“I understand,” said Bacca gently. “Courage. Perhaps in a few years, when the sensation has died down, if things in general look less precarious, perhaps then—” He let the words die away.

Gratillonius straightened. “You dangle that bait before me?”

“It may be honest. We shall have to wait and see. At the moment, I cannot give you any promises other than—taking the pressure off you about this business … provided you cause no further questions about your loyalty to be raised.”

“I won’t.” Gratillonius could not quite swallow the insult. “You snake, this is extortion.”

Bacca seemed unoffended. “It’s for Rome,” he replied.

2

Autumn weather came earliest to the high midland of Armorica. First the birches grew sallow and their leaves departed on chilly winds, then red and brown and yellow rustled all over the hills. Ducks left the meres and the reeds around them brittled. The rivers seemed to run louder through gorges filling with shadow. Clear nights were crowded with stars; the Swan soared over the evenings and Orion strode up before dawn.

Nemeta thanked Vindolenus and left him to get a bite of food and some rest in Catualorig’s house. It was a thirty-league trek the dour old Bacauda had made from the Confluentes neighborhood—thirty leagues for a bird, two or three times that on twisting trails or through tracklessness. Only once earlier had he been able to do it, carrying gifts and a message. He had his living to make; and Gratillonius did not share out the secret of where his daughter was. Vindolenus had taken her and Evirion there in the first instance, after Salomon brought them to him and asked they be given a refuge safely remote. In Roman eyes, men like this were still felons, unwise if they made themselves conspicuous. Some had scattered very widely, founding homesteads where no Armorican tribe would dispute it; but they kept in touch.

Nemeta carried the letter outside. It was a day of pale sunlight and nipping breeze. Fallen leaves rattled over the clearing around the rude, sod-roofed cabin. Its pair of outbuildings crowded close, dwarfish. Rails marked off a fold. Chickens scratched in the dust. A rivulet gurgled and
gleamed. Catualorig’s daughter returned sulkily from the excitement of the arrival to scrub clothes on the stones in its bed. From behind the cabin an ax thudded as her mother chopped firewood. The man and his two sons were about their tasks in the forest. It hemmed in the dwelling place and a tiny, hand-cultivated field. Height and hues cloaked the ruggedness of terrain, but the northward upslope was unmistakable.

Nemeta found a log at the edge of the plot, sat down, untied the tablets and spread them on her lap. She had become quite adept in the use of a single hand and bare toes. Words pressed into wax were necessarily spare, and Gratillonius’s writing style was less than eloquent. Yet she read over and over:

“My dear daughter, we are all well Food is short but nobody hungers too much. The barbarians are still bad but have not touched us here. Good news too. In August the Romans broke the invaders of Italy at last. Stilicho had collected many recruits, also Alan and Hun allies from beyond the Danuvius. He cut the barbarian supply lines and then killed them group by group. At last Radagaisus was captured and beheaded. We miss you and hope you are well. Your father.
”

A finer imprint continued, news of people she knew and of everyday things. It ended:
“We love you. God willing, we will yet bring you home. Greet Evirion. Verania.
”

Nemeta rose, tucked the tablets close to her, and hurried off upstream. Somberness had left her face. She hummed a song children in Ys once sang when at play. Along the trail she spied the younger boy, herding the swine, and gave him a hail whose cheeriness astonished him.

Shortly she heard the blunt noise of a mallet on wood. Another clearing opened before her. This one was minute, made where a brookside stand of shrubs could readily be removed. An uncompleted building occupied it. It too was small, of the primitive round form, though it would eventually boast a couple of windows with membranes and shutters. The soil was poor for wattle-and-daub, and Evirion built with stout poles, carefully chinked. The roof would be of turf, smokehole louvered; he was no thatcher, and besides, this would diminish the fire hazard. He stood on
a ladder—a length of fir with the branches lopped to stubs, leaned against the wall—and pegged a rafter to a crossbeam. Like her, he wore a single garment of coarse wool, for him a kilt. Muscles coiled in view. His beard had grown out and his hair was a hayrick.

“Evirion!” she cried. “A message—Vindolenus again—this time he brought us warm clothes and, and come read for yourself. ’Tis the most wonderful news.”

“Hold,” he said, and finished securing the roughly shaped timber. Only then did he drop the hammer and climb down. “Well, well. So there is still a world out there. Ofttimes I’ve felt unsure.”

“Take it. Read.” She thrust the tablets into his hands.

He scanned them, laid them on the ground, and muttered, “Italy saved. Doubtless a fine thing, but much of it must lie in wreck by now.”

“You don’t rejoice,” she said, crestfallen.

He shrugged. “Why do you? We remain exiles.”

“Oh—my father—”

“Aye. You’re glad because this word gave him a little happiness.” Evirion smiled. “So should I be. He’s a good man—the best. Nor should I whine at my own fate.”

Warmth swelled in her tones. “You never do. You’re too strong for that.”

“In some ways. In others—Well, brooding on such things weakens a man by itself.”

She waved at the house. “Behold what you’ve done. And in all weathers, too, this harsh year.”

“Ha, I’d better. Winter draws nigh.”

“You’ll outpace it. Once begun, you’ve raced ahead like wildfire.” He could accomplish little until Vindolenus had brought the tools he requested from Gratillonius. Catualorig’s were few, crude, and often needed by him. The settler and his sons lent a hand when necessary, but for the most part had no time to spare for it. They likewise must prepare for winter.

“Aye, ’twill be ready within another month, if my luck holds,” he said. “But I’d fain also make it a little comfortable.”

“That can come later. I can scarce wait to move in.”

They shared the cabin with the family and, at one end
of it, two cows. The dwellers were friendly enough but had no conversation in them. After dark, they snuffed the tallow candles and went to bed on skins spread over juniper boughs on the earthen floor. Then the only light was from coals in the banked firepit. Air was thick with smells of smoke, grease, dung, beast, man. When Catualorig mounted his wife, nobody could sleep till he was done, though that didn’t take long. The daughter was apt to giggle at those sounds.

Nemeta and Evirion had quickly decided they didn’t want to be immediate neighbors. Fortunately, the yard lacked much space for another structure. It would have been ill done to offend people who were so kindly and who loved Gratillonius themselves.

“’Twill never be like what you had in Ys, nor even later by the Stegir,” Evirion said, “but let me give you something better than a cave.”

“Could I but help!” Her pleasure blew away on the wind that soughed around. “It hurts being useless.”

“You’re not.”

“With this arm? And none of my arts?” She dared not practice her small witcheries. Thinly populated though the hills were, word of it would spread, and in time get to Roman ears. Her whereabouts betrayed, she might flee onward, but Gratillonius would be destroyed, with all that he had labored for. Nemeta had not offered the Three as much as a chant. That could have disturbed the inhabitants, who sacrificed to spirits of wood and water and to whom Ys was a tale of doom.

“You are
not
useless,” Evirion told her. “You do well with your single hand. They have gain of your aid. You lighten their lives with your stories and poems. You bring me my midday food as I work, and talk and sing to me. Without that cheer, I’d lag far behind.”

“The most I can tender you,” she answered sadly, “who lost everything because of me.”

“That’s just as false,” he blurted. “You’re enough, and more.”

“Oh, Evirion—”

He moved to hug her. It would have been chaste, but she slipped aside. His arms fell.

“I’m sorry” he said dully. “I forgot. The curse of what happened that day by the sea.”

She hung her head and dug a toe into the earth. “The Gods have not healed me of it,” she whispered.

“Those Gods?” He curbed his scorn and attempted gaiety. “Well, anyhow, soon you’ll have your own house.’

She looked up, half alarmed. “Nay, ours.”

He let the mask drop from him. Pain roughened his voice. “So I believed too. But I’ve thought more, and, and may as well tell you now. This hut—Belike ’twould be too much for my strength, living with you as brother and sister in a palace. In a single space, impossible. This shall be yours alone.”

“But what will you do?” she wailed.

He forced a grin. “I’ll fettle me. Our present lodging can easily become a merry place.”

She stared.

“That’s a sprightly young chick Catualorig’s fathered,” he said, “and she’s been giving me a twinklesome eye, and he’s already hinted he’d liefer have me than a ruck of woodland louts beget his grandchildren.”

“What?
”

He heard and saw she was appalled. Hastily, he said, “Ah, I tease you,” then could not resist adding, “Mayhap.”

Nemeta tightened her left fist, gulped, finally uttered, “Oh, I’ve no right—” A yell: “Nay, you’re too good for an unwashed hussy like that!”

“Weep not,” he begged, contrite. “Please. I was jesting.”

She blinked hard. “W-were you?”

“Not altogether,” he admitted wryly. “The desire does wax in me day by day, and there she is. But if naught else, ’twould be cruel of me, when I’m bound to forsake her.”

“You are? Where can you go?”

“Anywhere else.” Bitterness broke through. “You’ve called yourself useless, wrongly. But what am I? Once this thing is done, what’s for my hands? I’m a blunderer in the hunt. I doubt I could dig a straight furrow or make aught grow save weeds. Nor do I care to. This is no life for a seaman. Come spring, if we’re here yet, I’m off.”

The green eyes were enormous in a face drained of color. “What will you do?”

“Make my way south.” He gained heart as he spoke. “Who’ll know me, once I’ve changed my name? Surely I can find a berth as a deckhand. Any skipper so bold as to sail nowadays must reck little of guilds and laws. I think of earning me a passage to Britannia. ’Tis in turmoil, but that means opportunities.”

She reached out her hand. “Nay, Evirion,” she pleaded. “Leave me not.”

“Be of good cheer. You’ll be quite safe. Catualorig will keep you fed and fuelled. ’Tis no great strain on him. Game is plentiful and he’s a master huntsman, besides having his livestock.”

“But reavers, barbarians—”

“They’ve never come this far inland. Naught worth their stealing. And no man of these parts will dare lay a finger on you. Gratillonius’s vengeance would be swift and sure. Moreover, though you’ve put your arts aside, they’ve some idea of what you can do at need. Fear not. Bide your time.”

“’Tis you I fear for! Out in yon ongoing slaughter—”

“I’ll live. Or if I die, the foe will rue the price. At worst, ’twill be happier than this—this—” He stopped.

“What? Speak it.”

He yielded. “This emptiness. Endless yearning.”

She stood a long while silent. The wind ruffled her hair, like flames dancing. Finally she drew breath and said, “We can end it.”

“How?”

She looked straight at him. “I love you, Evirion.”

He had no words.

“I dared not say it.” She spoke almost calmly. “Now I must. I will be yours. What, shall you not embrace me?”

He reeled to her and gathered her in arms that shivered. “I’d never … willingly … hurt you,” he croaked.

“I know you’ll be gentle. I think, if you’re patient, I think you can teach me. Can give me back what I lost.”

He brought his lips down. Hers were shy at first, then clumsy, then eager.

“Come,” she said amidst laughter and tears. She tugged at his wrist. “Now, at once. Spread your kilt under me. Away from the wind, inside these walls of ours.”

3

A sharp summer was followed by a hard winter. Snow-fells, rarely seen in Armorica, warmed air a little for a short while, then soon a ringing frost would set in. Against the whitened steeps where Gesocribate had nestled, its burnt-over shell seemed doubly black.

Brick and tile, the house of Septimius Rullus was among those that had escaped conflagration. It was sacked; the rooms echoed hollowly. Cleaning had removed the shards of beautiful things and the filth, but could do nothing for murals smoke-stained and hacked, mosaic floor wantonly chipped and pried at. The curial survived because he left the city when the Saxons first hove in view. That was not cowardice. Old, a widower, he could only have gotten in the way of the defenders and consumed supplies they needed if the combat turned into a siege. He had taken with him as many of the helpless as he was able to lead, kept their spirits from breaking while they fled across the hinterland and huddled in whatever shelter they found, brought them back to take up existence among the ruins.

Others there had avoided the general massacre in various ways. The barbarians had also overlooked food stores sufficient to last this remnant population a few months, if miserly doled out. Manufactures resumed on a small scale, producing goods to trade for necessities. The nearest thing to a tribune that ghost Gesocribate had, Rullus got all this effort started and held it together. Therefore Gratillonius, who had heard the story, sought him out.

They sat on stools hastily made and held their hands close to a single brazier, in lieu of a hypocaust for which there was not enough firewood. Its glow and a couple of tallow candles stuck to a battered table gave feeble light. Outside was day, but panes had been shattered and windows were stuffed with rags. It was just as well, perhaps; the chamber was no longer a pretty sight. A slave had brought in bread, cheese, and ale. The farm-brewed drink was in two goblets of exquisite glass and a silver decanter;
the raiders had not found absolutely everything. Rullus had remarked that he would sell the pieces when he found a buyer who could pay what they were worth. “My son and son-in-law were both killed,” he added stoically. “Their wives and children have more need of money than of heirlooms.”