“That’s strange,” Maeloch said after a while. His voice, which could outshout storms, was hushed. “Dolphins’ll play thus with a craft, but scarce ever a seal.”
Quinipilis nodded. “I think I ken it,” she answered as low. Clear sight remained to her. “Yon particularly beautiful coat, a kind of gold under the brown, and those big eyes. Could be the same as was there when the babe went overside. You’ve heard? I glimpsed it. And a few time since on the beach—”
“A seal saved me and my crew once. Guided us home through a fog, when else we’d sure have run aground.”
Quinipilis nodded. “We’re both wont to signs of the Otherworld, nay? As close as we are to it, in our different ways.” She glanced at Dahut. “Sea child.”
The girl returned to playfulness when Maeloch dropped sail and rowed to that skerry he had mentioned. It was large of its kind, an islet, bare rock but strewn with weed, shells, bleached and contorted sticks of driftwood. Tidepools gleamed on its lower ledges. She clapped her hands and caroled. Maeloch lay to, hung out rope bumpers, jumped ashore with the painter and made fast to an upright thumb of stone. “Come ye, sweetling,” he called. “Nay, first put sandals back on. ’Twouldn’t do having the barnacles cut those wee feet.”
He assisted Quinipilis, then brought a chair and parasol carried along for her, then set out luncheon, while Dahut scampered round and round, shouting at each new marvel she discovered. After they had all refreshed themselves he led her by the hand, explaining things as best he could. Quinipilis watched, smiled, sometimes talked in an undertone to nobody he saw. At last he said, “Well, Princess, best we be starting home.”
Dahut’s face clouded. “Nay,” she answered.
“We must. The tide’s turning. That’ll help your poor old Uncle Maeloch, for the wind’s down and he’ll have to row a lot. But if we wait too long, the tide’ll close the gate, and we’ll have to make for Scot’s Landing, and your poor old Aunt Quinipilis can’t get up the cliffs there.”
The child stuck out her lower lip, clenched fists, stamped foot. “Nay. I b’long here.”
“Not the way the sun’s putting a flush in that white skin of yours, ye don’t. No mutiny, now. Ye can play till I’ve stowed our gear.”
Dahut whirled and sped from him.
When Maeloch returned to Quinipilis he found she had dozed off in her chair, as the aged do. He left her alone while he loaded the boat. Always he kept half an eye in Dahut’s direction. She had gone down to the water and become quiet. The rock sloped in such wise that he could see merely the fair top of her head.
Having finished his task, he gave Quinipilis a slight shake. She drew a rattling breath and blinked confusedly. “Dahilis—” she mumbled. Her senses steadied. “Oh, my, such eldritch dreams I was having.” Painfully, she hobbled to the boat and got in with Maeloch’s assistance.
The sailor went after Dahut. “Time to go,” he said, and stopped and stared.
On the ledge beneath him, the girl was side by side with the seal. Maeloch saw that the animal was female. Her narrow, earless head (how much the head of a seal called to mind a human corpse) had brought muzzle against cheek, through a tumble of tresses. The fishy breath seemed to give no offense. Did a murmur, a hum or a tone, resound from the long throat?
“Dahut!” Maeloch bellowed. “What the thunder?”
The two started, rolled apart, exchanged a look. The seal slithered into the water and dived below. Dahut leaped up. The wet body had soaked her gown so that it clung to the curves of her, which were not yet a woman’s curves but slender as if to cleave waves. Calming, she walked toward him without protest.
Maeloch squatted to inspect her. “Ye’re not hurt?” he grated. “Damnation, whatever happened? Don’t do that sort o’ thing! A big beast like yon could tear ye in shreds. Saw ye nay its teeth?”
“She came and sang to me,” Dahut answered like a sleepwalker.
“Sang? Huh? Seals don’t sing. They bark.”
“She did so.” Sheer willfulness brought the girl back to herself. “She sang ’bout the sea ’cos I wan’ed she should.” Turning she called across the luminous, moving miles: “I’ll come again! I’ll al’ays come again!”
The mood flitted from her. She gave Maeloch an impudent grin, a wink, and her hand to hold. What could he do but lead the daughter of Dahilis to the boat and take her home to her father?
He knew he would never understand what he had seen; but he, who dealt with the dead as his forebears had done before him, need not be daunted by a mystery as tender as this. “She sang, did she?” he asked.
“She did, she did.” Dahut nodded violently. “She tol’ me ’bout my sea”
“What did she tell you?”
“I ’member. You wan’ a’ hear?” The treble that lifted toward the gulls was childish, but the words no longer were, and the melody ebbed and flowed. It was not a song that had ever been heard in Ys.
“Deep, deep, where the waters sleep
And the great fish come and go,
What do they dream in the twilight gleam?
The seals will always know.
“Far, far, from the evening star
Comes the storm when the wind runs free
And the cloud that lours with the rain that pours.
The seals will always see.
“High, high is the evening sky,
Deep is the Ocean swell.
Where foam is white in the changing light,
The seals will always dwell.”
3
For the past three years, except when it was impossible, Gratillonius had given a day every month to open court. Anybody was free to enter the basilica during those hours, to watch the proceedings or to lay before him a trouble—dispute, complaint, need—that lower authorities had failed to resolve. Turn by turn, he heard them out, and rendered judgment with military briskness. He had neither time nor patience for subtleties, though he strove to be fair. In doubtful cases he generally found for the humble. They had less to fall back on than the well-off.
The setting was impressive. Tiered benches looked down toward a dais on which the King sat enthroned, the Wheel embroidered in gold on his crimson robe, the Key hanging out in view upon his breast, the Hammer across his knees. At a table to his left sat a recorder whose pen ran as fast as words were uttered, on his right a jurist with scrolls containing the laws of Ys before him. Behind the seats four legionaries in full battle gear stood at attention; and behind them loomed the eidolons of the Three, Taranis the Father, Belisama the Mother, kraken that represented inhuman Lir.
On that day, a rainstorm made dim the light from the glazed windows and laved the chamber with its susurrus. Candles in walls sconces and lamps on the desks cast their small glows, uneasy in the drafts. More people than usual had come to observe, for a notorious case was to be heard. The smell of wet wool garments gave sharpness to the air.
Gratillonius heard pleaders in order of arrival. Nagon Demari registered outrage, but Donnerch the wagoner guffawed, when they must wait for several of the lower classes. An elderly woman stated that she did not want the charity of the Gallicenae, for her son’s widow could perfectly well pay her support as the son himself had done; having obtained the figures, Gratillonius so ordered. A man found guilty of theft brought friends, whom the magistrate had ruled unreliable, to declare he had been with them on the night of the crime; Gratillonius released him on grounds of reasonable doubt, but warned that this would be taken into account if there was another accusation. A sailor declared that his captain did wrong to make him suffer six lashes for a minor infraction, and ought to pay compensation for the injustice; after several of the crew had testified, Gratillonius said, “You were lucky. I’d have given you nine.”
Thereupon it was time for Nagon Demari, Labor Councillor among the Suffetes, and Donnerch, son of Arel, carter. Nagon spoke at length about his beneficence in organizing the longshoremen of Ys into a guild, now that trade was improving, thanks to wise King Grallon. He made
a mouth as he said that: a stocky, cold-eyed man who despite aristocratic blood had been born poor and scrabbled his way up in the world till he sat in the Council. “Spare me this and get to the point,” Gratillonius snapped.
Nagon looked indignant but explained that handling cargo obviously involved carrying it inland, wherefore carters should belong to the guild, pay its dues, require its fixed charges for their work, and perform such services for the guild as it leadership needed. Donnerch had not only refused these requests, made for his own good, and done so in unseemly language, he had brutally assailed two of the brotherhood who sought to persuade him.
Three newcomers entered the hall. Gratillonius drew a quick breath and raised his hand. “A moment,” he interrupted. Louder: “Thrice welcome, honored sir!” with the same repeated in Latin.
Corentinus made salutation. A letter had declared he was coming, but Gratillonius had not looked for him quite this soon. He must have ridden hard, he and the two strong young men who must be deacons assigned him. The new chorepiscopus of Ys had shed much of the forest hermit. Nose, chin, cheekbones still jutted, deep-set eyes still smoldered under tangled brows, but hair and beard were neatly clipped and he had evidently bathed at hostels where he overnighted. His head was bare, the tonsured locks drenched and matted; but the paenula hanging from his shoulders to his knees, off which water dripped, was of good, quality, and beneath it the long shanks displayed Gallic breeches tucked into boots.
“We shall hear you out tomorrow—” Gratillonius started to tell those who stood before him.
“Nay,” said Corentinus. He used Osismian, but already he could throw in enough Ysan words that he was intelligible to every listener. How had he learned them? “We have arrived early, and God forbid it be in pride. Let us abide your leisure.” He folded his height down on a rear bench. Stiffly, the deacons joined him.
Donnerch answered the question in Gratillonius’s mind. “Why I know that fellow,” he exclaimed. “Hoy-ah, Corentinus!” he waved. The clergyman smiled and made a responding gesture. “I got as far as Turonum, trek before last,” the wagoner said, “and he heard about me being from Ys and paid me for a few days of language teaching. I earned it, lord. How he worked me!” He was a big young man, yellow-haired, freckle-faced, ordinarily cheerful.
“May we get on with our business, O King?” Nagon demanded.
“If you’ll be quick about it,” Gratillonius replied.
Presently Donnerch said: “By Epona, but he lies, him! Hark’ee, lord. I’d no reason for paying into his mucky guild and doing his mucky will, did I? And so I told my fellow independent carters. Then this pair of toughs came to call on me. When they started talking about two broken arms, I snatched my mule whip off the wall. I have the cudgels they dropped on their way out, if the King wants to see ’em. Aye, they had me hauled up on charges of assault, but the Magistrate didn’t believe ’em, though he dared not call ’em perjurers either. So here we are.”
“Perjurers?” shouted Nagon. “Lord, I’ve come on their behalf because their injuries are too cruel, too grievous, after that barbaric attack—”
“Silence!” Gratillonius commanded. “Think you the King is blind and deaf? I’ve stayed my hand erenow, Nagon Demari, for there’s been much else for me to do, and it did seem you’d bettered the lot of your workers somewhat. But darker stories have grown too many of late. This is only the newest of them.”
“Two honest men swear, against this known drunkard and brawler, that he fell on them with a dangerous weapon, unprovoked. Poor Jonan lost an eye. Cudgels? Donnerch could find two cudgels anywhere.”
“Getting hurt is a hazard of building empires,” Gratillonius said, “and I warn you to stop trying to build yours any bigger. Free carters are not longshoremen. Henceforth, leave them alone. And… Donnerch, mayhap you were needlessly rough. Tell your friends that next time something like this happens, there will be a full inquiry; and whoever has taken arms against a man without real need, hell know the scourge or the ax. Dismissed.”
Donnerch barely suppressed a whoop, Nagon did not conceal a glower. Gratillonius wondered whether he, the King, had won or lost today. He needed all the support he could call on, when he must protect not a mild Eucherius but a forceful Corentinus.
Luckily, just two more cases were left, and those minor. He adjourned before any further petitioners could arrive. In a rear chamber he exchanged his robe for everyday tunic, trousers, hooded cloak. The Key felt momentarily chill against his skin.
Returning, he ignored everybody else that lingered, to greet the chorepiscopus properly and have the deacons introduced to him. Those seemed like vigorous and dedicated men, but well under control of their leader. “It’s good to see you again,” Gratillonius said in Latin, quite sincerely in spite of awaiting difficulties. “I hope you’ll like Ys.”
“I do,” the minister answered. “Too much. As I rode in, what memories came back.” He squared his shoulders. “My friend, I don’t know whether you’ve done me the greatest service or the scurviest trick; but Bishop Martinus said this is God’s will, and that must suffice me. Will you show us to the church?”
“Why, you’re here too soon. Nothing’s properly ready. I’ll quarter you in the palace till then.”
Corentinus shook his head. “No thanks. The fewer fleshly comforts and temptations, the better. To tell the truth, a reason I pushed hard on the road was fear that you, in mistaken kindness, would outfit our dwelling luxuriously.”
“Well, come look, but I warn you, the place has lain neglected since Eucherius died.”
“The more merit to us,” Corentinus said almost merrily, “as we make it into a fortress of God.”
Gratillonius thought of his Mithraeum, also an outpost lonely and beleaguered. Let Corentinus settle in, get some rest, begin to find out for himself what Ys was—not only a seaport with the usual gaiety, unruliness, swindlings, sorrows, vices, ghosts, dreams… though in Ys they were stronger and stranger than elsewhere—not only a city of wealth, power, beauty, industry, corruption, vanity, arrogance, like others… though in Ys these flourished as they had not done elsewhere since the high days of Rome—but a whole society with its own ways and Gods which were not akin to those of any other, ancient, pervasive, and enduring. He, Gratillonius, had not yet fully come to terms with Ys, and he was no Christian. He hoped Corentinus would not break his heart, battering against what the evangelist must needs perceive as wickedness.
They went out into the Forum and the rain. Wind sent the water at a slant, silver that glinted cold across the mosaics of dolphins and sea horses, and downward from basin to basin of the Fire Fountain at the center. The wind hooted and plucked at clothes. It bore a sound and smell of Ocean. Hardly a soul was in sight. Gratillonius led the way across to the former temple of Mars.
“Sir—lord King—” He stopped and looked toward the voice. The speaker was young Budic, who as a legionary of his had today taken a turn in the honor guard at the palace. “Sir, an Imperial courier brought this. I thought I’d better get it to you right away, and you’d be hereabouts.”
“Well done,” said the centurion of the Second, and took a scroll wrapped in oiled cloth. He kept impassive, though his heart slugged and his throat tightened. Budic stood staring as he walked on.
In the portico of the church he said to Corentinus: “Let me read this at once. I suspect it’s something you should know about too.”
The chorepiscopus traced a cross in the wet air. “You’re probably right,” he replied.
The letter was clearly one sent in many copies through Gallia, Hispania, and perhaps beyond.
—Magnus Clemens Maximus, Augustus, to the Senate and the People of Rome, and to all others whom it may concern, charging them most solemnly and under the severest penalties to carry out those duties laid upon them by Almighty God and the state…
—After four years of patient negotiation, it has become clear that accommodation with Flavius Valentinianus, styled Emperor, is unattainable… Intr
ansigence and repeated violations… The abominable heresy of Arius… The cleansing of the state, even as Our Savior drove out money changers and demons…
—Therefore we most strictly enjoin the people and those in whose care the people are, that they remain loyal and orderly, obedient to those whom God has set above them, while we lead our armies into Italy and wherever else may prove needful, to the end that the Western Empire, harmoniously with our brother Theodosius of the East, again have tranquillity under a single and righteous ruler.
4
An autumn storm roared, whistled, flung rain and hail, throughout one night. It made doubly comforting the warmth of Bodilis’s bed and body. By morning the weather was dry but the gale still ramped. Man and woman woke about the same time, smiled drowsily at each other through the dimness, shared a kiss. Desire came back. He laughed, low in his throat. “There’s no call on me today,” he said, drawing her closer.
That was not true. There was always something to clamor for the attention of the centurion, the prefect, the King. Only the day before, news had arrived from beyond the Alps, via the Duke of the Armorican Tract: Maximus was firmly in possession of Mediolanum and Valentinianus had fled eastward out of Italy. Gratillonius then made an excuse to visit the wisest of his Queens, out of turn, for her counsel and afterward her solace.
Nevertheless—“Just you and me,” he said in the Latin she wanted to maintain for herself. “Later, let’s breakfast with Una, hm?”
“M-m-m,” she responded, and in other ways as well.
He often thought that if he could have his wish, she would be his sole wife. She had not the raw ardor of Forsquilis, good-natured sensuality of Maldunilis, dumb eagerness to please of Guilvilis; somehow, in her enough of each was alloyed. She was handsome rather than beautiful, and the years were putting gray into the wavy brown hair, crow’s-feet around the blue nearsighted eyes, wrinkliness under the throat, sag in the breasts. But she was no crone, and good bones would endure. Though her monthly courses had not ended, it did not seem she would bear him more children, ever. Well, he had plenty now, and Una was a darling second only to Dahut. Before all else was the wholeness of her. She knew things, thought about them, gave him her judgments, submitted to nothing save the truth as she saw it. She was his friend, such as he had not had since Parnesius on the Wall; and she was his lover.
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