Corentinus therefore expressed surprise when Budic came to his church with word that the King had urgent want of his presence. He said nothing further, threw a hooded cloak over his coarse dark robe, and followed the soldier out. The midday was murky, rain driven thick and chill before a shrieking wind. It scourged faces, forced itself through garments, coursed down ribs and legs, swirled in the streets higher than shoesoles. Often heaven flared, and thunder followed like the wheels of a monstrous war chariot. The sea raged at the gate which the King had locked.
At the palace, the majordomo took the newcomer’s cloak and offered him a towel and change of clothes. “I thank you, but nay,” Corentinus replied. “Let my wet tracks be a sign to you that here also is no hiding from God. Lead me to your master.”
Gratillonius sat in the upstairs room he favored for private conferences. Cups, jugs of wine and water, a lamp stood on the table before him. Next to them lay a papyrus roll. Neither the flame nor the greenish-glassed windows much relieved a dampness in which pastoral frescoes became an irony, nor did a brazier give much warmth. Beneath his everyday outfit of tunic and trousers, Gratillonius huddled in a cape; and that was strange; for cold did not usually trouble him. He had left off any ornamentation. When he looked up at Corentinus’s entry, the chorespiscopus saw the strong-boned countenance drawn into haggardness.
“Shut the door,” Gratillonius rasped in Latin. “Be seated.”
Corentinus obeyed. Gratillonius leaned over the table between them, stabbed a forefinger onto the document, and said in the same tone, “Magnus Maximus is dead.”
“What?” Briefly, Corentinus registered shock. He crossed himself, bowed his head, whispered a prayer. When he again met the other man’s gaze, his own was firm. “You’ve just had word?”
Gratillonius jerked a nod. “From the Duke. It happened well over a month ago, but couriers to bear the news were few.”
“Theodosius overthrew Maximus, then? He died in battle?”
“No. Theodosius defeated him decisively near Aquileia. I think the Gothic cavalry made the difference. Maximus surrendered and renounced his claim to the throne. That should have been the end, hey? Exile somewhere, to an island, likeliest. Let the man who saved Britannia close his days in peace and honor. But no, soon afterward Maximus and his young son Victor were killed. This letter to me isn’t clear as to whether it was beheading at the express order of Theodosius, or murder by stealth.” A fist smote the table. The lampflame quivered. “Whichever, we know by whose will they died!”
“God rest their souls,” Corentinus said. “And yet He is just, is He not? Maximus’s rival Gratianus perished miserably too—and Priscillianus, and how many more?—because of that man’s ambition.”
“I’d grudges of my own against him. But he was my old commandant!” Gratillonius shouted. “He held the Wall for Rome! He should not have died like that!”
He seized the wine jug and sloshed full a cup. Without adding water, he swallowed. “Pour for yourself, Corentinus,” he said. “Drink with me to the memory of Magnus Maximus.”
“Is this why you sent for me?”
“N-no. Not really. Though I do want, need, to talk with you, and I expect I’ll get drunk, and that’s nothing a man should do alone.”
Corentinus took a small measure of wine, diluted it well, and sipped. “May I offer a Mass for the repose of those souls?”
“Do. I meant to ask it of you. I thought of a funerary rite before Mithras, but—but Maximus wouldn’t have liked that, would he? I’ll pay what it costs to have you give my commandant a Christian farewell.”
Wind keened, rain runneled down the glass.
“Am I the first you have told about this?” asked Corentinus.
Again Gratillonius nodded stiffly. “I’ve got to convene the Suffetes and break the news. But first I’d better have a plan to lay before them. Else they’ll debate and squabble and bargain, while matters drift. That kind of delay could prove fatal.”
“I am no politician or soldier, my son. I couldn’t advise you.”
“Oh, you can. You’ve been around in the Empire more than I have. You’ve got the ear of Bishop Martinus, who’s more powerful than he pretends, even to himself. Theodosius has reinstalled Valentinianus, his brother-in-law, as Augustus of the West; but Theodosius is staying on for a while in Italy, and you know very well who’s really going to rule. From what I hear, he’s a zealous Catholic. You can better guess than I how he’ll use the church, and it him.”
Corentinus frowned. “Watch your tongue.” He paused. “What do you fear, exactly? Won’t everyone benefit from peace and a strong Imperium?”
“Once I’d have supposed so,” Gratillonius answered starkly, “but I’ve learned otherwise. And… I belong here now, I belong to Ys. Rome is still my Mother, but Ys is my Wife.”
Within the short beard, Corentinus’s lips quirked the least bit. Sobering, he lingered over a fresh taste of his wine before he said: “I see. Maximus appointed you prefect. There will doubtless be a pretty deep-going purge of his officials.”
Gratillonius drained his cup and refilled it. “I’m not frightened for myself. I honestly think I’m not. But if I’m ordered back and—and obey, what then? Who’ll succeed me? What’ll he do?”
“Do you fear Roman occupation, the pagan temples destroyed and rites forbidden, Ys rising in revolt and Rome laying it waste as Rome long ago did to Jerusalem?”
Gratillonius shivered. “You’ve said it.”
Corentinus regarded him closely. “Then I’ll also say that this strikes me as being a terrible evil. They’re not simple rustics in Ys, the kind whose sanctuaries I helped Martinus overthrow. There it was enough to show how the old Gods were powerless to stop us. They’d never been very large in the lives of the people. A spring, a hill, any sacred site meant more; and it can as well be under the tutelage of a Christian saint. The Gods of Ys will not fade away like that. Before yielding up Their worshippers, They would bring Ys itself down in ruin.”
“You understand,” Gratillonius breathed.
“My holy duty is to win your people to the true Faith. My single hope of doing so without bringing on catastrophe is by persuasion, patience, year after slow year. Not to attack the Gods, but to sap Them. If only you would unlock your heart—But at least, under you, Ys flourishes, open to newness as it has not been in centuries; and your protection is impartial. We need you as our King.”
“If you’d write to Martinus—”
“I’ll do that, and more. He, in his turn, can convince the bishops throughout Lugdunensis that Ys should be spared. The Imperium ought to heed them. Besides, in worldly terms, better a loyal foederate, a keystone of defense and a cauldron of trade, than wreckage.”
Gratillonius eased somewhat, achieved a smile, said: ‘Thank you. The Duke is on my side already. I don’t think they’ll dismiss him; he goes back to before Maximus. If you can make the Church our ally as well—” Impulsively: “Listen, Corentinus. You know the Ysan charities are mostly run by the Gallicenae. I know your mission hasn’t much to spend. Help me, and I’ll endow your good works, generously.”
“The thought does you credit,” replied the pastor with care, “but the deed could endanger you. Your magnates would see it as yet another defiance of the Gods.”
“What I lay out of my privy purse is no concern of theirs, or of Theirs.”
“M-m, you realize that such of the poor and unfortunate as you enable us to aid—they will be grateful more to us than you, and this will incline them toward Christ.”
Gratillonius laughed and drank. “Manly of you to warn me, but of course I knew it. No harm done. Why should I bar anybody from forsaking the Gods of Ys?”
Corentinus studied him. “Wouldn’t you want them to come to your Mithras?”
Gratillonius shrugged. On the heels of his merriment trod pain: “Few ever would. His is no longer a conquering army. We hold the wall for Him while we can, but the foe has marched around it.”
He upend
ed his cup and filled it anew. “The Wall!” he shouted. “We stood on the Wall under Maximus. My buddies—How many went south with him? What’s going to become of them? Those are men of mine. I barracked with them, and pounded the roads and dug the trenches and fought the raiders and diced and caroused with them, and after I’d made centurion I led them, punished them when they needed it, heard out their troubles when they needed that—my Second Augusta and—and there were others with us on the Wall that year, Corentinus. Like Drusus of the Sixth; we saved each other’s lives, d’you hear? So they fought for our old Duke, and lost, and what’s that Emperor who killed Maximus and Victor out of hand, what’s he going to do about them?”
“You are getting drunk in a hurry,” Corentinus observed in the sailor’s lingo he used when he wanted to.
“I don’t expect Theodosius can massacre them,” Gratillonius went on. “Too many. But what, then? Think he’ll send them back to their bases in Britannia, Gallia, wherever? I think not. He’ll be afraid of them, and want to make an example, too. He’ll discharge them, maybe. And what are they supposed to do then? They’ll lose their veteran’s benefits. Are they supposed to starve? Become serfs? Join the Bacaudae? What?”
“A knotty question, in truth,” Corentinus agreed. “Christ bade us forgive our enemies, and I should hope Theodosius will, if only for his own soul’s sake. But those men were mutineers, in a sense, and they’d too likely be an unsettling element in the army. You feel Maximus should simply have been exiled. But how can thousands be?”
Gratillonius straightened. Wine splashed from his cup as he crashed it to the table. “Here!” he exclaimed. “By the Bull, you’ve hit on it! Armorica’s half empty. What we need most is more people, to make their homes and stand guard over them. And there we’ve got those fighting men, and here we’ve got a peninsula at the far end of the Empire where they couldn’t possibly be any threat to our overlords.”
Excitement seized Corentinus likewise. “Write to the Duke and the governor at once,” he said. “Urge them to propose it to the Emperors. Offer the influence, experience, help of Ys in getting settlement started. God willing, you’ll have a glad acceptance.”
“I’ll write tomorrow,” Gratillonius roared, “and afterward tell the Council. Now let’s drink and sing songs and remember Maximus and all old comrades.”
Corentinus smiled—wistfully? “I may not do that myself. But I’ll keep you company if you like.”
They had been at it for a while, as the day darkened further, when a knock on the door brought Gratillonius there. He opened it and stood aside, still steady on his feet though the flush of wine was on his cheeks and the odor of it on his breath.
Bodilis entered. Her hair hung as wet as her garments. The hands with which she took his were cold.
“I thought you should hear this from me, beloved,” she said, oblivious to anybody else. “Word reached me, I went to see, and, and, I think Quinipilis is dying.”
X
1
The agony that speared through breast and left arm, the stranglehold that closed on a heart flying wild, gave way to quietness. She slept a great deal, though lightly, often rousing from dreams. Her pulse fluttered weak, like a wounded bird, and she had no strength. Nonetheless she whispered her commands that she be helped out of bed for bathing and necessities. Such times left her exhausted for hours, but her head remained always clear. Besides the wedded couple who were her only servants, the other Gallicenae insisted on abiding in her house, each a day and night in turn. They allowed no more than very brief visits by the many who came, nor did they themselves tax her with much talk. Often, though, they read aloud to her from books she loved.
Rainstorms gave way to fog. As summer waned, Ys lay in a chill dankness and a white blindness that seemed to go on without end. Quinipilis could not get warm, even when the hypocaust had made the floor too hot for bare feet. The Sisters kept her tucked in fleece blankets and rubbed her hands and feet—carefully, as deformed and tender as those had become. They brought soup and upheld her maned skull while spooning it into her.
Innilis had musicians on call, for such times as harp, flute, song might briefly cheer. Bodilis translated some lyrics of Sappho into Ysan, because Quinipilis had admired those she already knew. Whenever she rallied a little, however, the dowager was apt to ask for something more vigorous, renditions from the Greek, original in Latin or Ysan: the clangor of Homer and Vergilius, sternness of Aeschylus and Euripides, comedy of Philemon and Plautus, or (wickedly grinning) the bawdiest bits from Aristophanes and Catullus, as well as Utican the Wanderer and Witch-Hanai of this city. A couple of times she herself recited snatches of Gallic or Saxon.
That was near the beginning of her invalidity. Soon she slipped deeper down, and mostly lay with her thoughts and memories.
Then on the ninth morning she told Fennalis, who had the watch: “Bring my Sisters hither.”
“Nay, you’d wear yourself out. I can scarce hear your voice, though you’ve had a night’s rest. Take care so you can get well.”
Wrinkles formed a hideous frown. Somehow the words loudened enough. “Stop that. I am not in my dotage, thank you. I am outworn, for which there is no healing.” The scowl turned into laughter lines. “I’ve somewhat to convey to the lot of you—at once, ere the wheels altogether fall off the old oxcart. Prepare me your strongest strengthening draught.”
“That could easily kill you.”
“Another day or two would do that anyhow, with naught to show for it.” Quinipilis must halt a while to breathe. Her fingers plucked at the covers. “Fennalis, I conjure… I conjure all of you… by Our Lady of Passage.”
The short gray woman wrestled with herself a moment before she nodded, bit her lip to hold it still, and scuttled out.
Presently there were seven crowded at the bedside. Guilvilis was absent, having the Vigil on Sena. Forsquilis, who was this day’s presiding high priestess, had come directly from the Temple of Belisama in her blue gown and white headdress. Innilis clutched the hand of Vindilis, like a child her mother’s. Maldunilis wept, striving to hold it quiet and not blubber. Lanarvilis kept stoic. Bodilis kissed the withered lips and stood aside. Fennalis plumped pillows, got Quinipilis half sitting up amidst them, fetched the decoction of foxglove, willow bark, and herbs more curious, held the cup while it went its way, took a post hard by.
Quinipilis’s breath quickened and grew noisy. That was almost the single sound. Fog made windowpanes featureless. Within, candles kept shadows at bay, though they filled every corner. A few things were clear to see—a vase of aster and fern from the woods, shelved toys that had been her daughters’ when they were small, the hanging sword of King Wulfgar who was her first man, in a niche with a taper at its feet a statuette of Belisama as a young matron holding Her infant. Air lay overheated and sullen.
A hint of blood mounted through the waxiness on Quinipilis. Her glance brightened and steadied. When she spoke, it was clearly: “Welcome. Thank you for coming.”
“How could we not come, mother, mother to us all?” replied Vindilis.
“This is our goodbye, of course.” Quinipilis’s voice was matter-of-fact. She raised a palm against the protest she saw in some of their faces. “Nay, we’ve scant time left. Let’s spill none of it in foolishness. For myself, I’m more than ready to go to my rest. But first I’ve a thing to deal with—or, rather, leave to you.”
“Hush,” Forsquilis bade the Sisters. “The Spirit is upon her.”
Quinipilis shook her head and coughed out a chuckle. “I misbelieve that, my dear. Tis no more than the same vixen that ever made her den in me.” She grew serious. “Yet lying here quietly, so quietly, feeling time slip away—that gives one to think, in between the visits of the living and the dead.”
The high-crowned head nodded. “You’ve wondered whom the Gods will choose to reign after you, and why.”
Quinipilis sighed. “Aye. I told you I am content to go. But I would have been earlier. Or I could have stayed longe
r, equally content to watch the seasons pass and the children grow. Is it chance that I must depart just now? I fear very much the Gods are not done with our King.”
“Nay!” broke from Bodilis. She slammed control down on herself. “If They are still angry because of—that unfulfilled sacrifice and—other matters—why have They not struck him already?”
Quinipilis closed her eyes. The power of the medicine was flagging. “You can guess?”
“Mayhap I can,” Lanarvilis said slowly. “This year agone has been the most dangerous for Ys since the year he came. The Empire has been in upheaval while the barbarians snuffed blood and grew hungry. Then the Imperial peace returned, but the victors would fain destroy everything Ys has ever been. Who could cope save Gratillonius? Even his man Rufinus who should have died in the Wood, Rufinus has proven an instrument for him to begin shoring up our bulwarks. Therefore the Gods have stayed Their hands.”
“Until now,” whispered Forsquilis.
Quinipilis reopened her eyes. “So I have thought,” she told them. “Also this have I thought, that They cannot yet spare him, but They will seek to humble him; and in that They will fail, but They can wound him terribly. He is a good man, under his iron—”
“He came to me yesterday, straight from having been with you,” said Bodilis, “and that whole eventide he was swallowing tears.”
“Stand by him, Sisters,” Quinipilis pleaded. “Whatever happens, never forsake him.”
“We can ill do that, like it or not,” said Vindilis.
“W-w-we did bring him!” blurted Maldunilis. “We made him King. Could we have a better one? Nay!”
Gallicenae Page 19
