Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  Now a daughter of Bodilis, also by Hoel, reigned as a new Tambilis…. A shiver went through Carsa. This history was as dark, as twisted as that of the house of Atreus. What was he, a Christian man, doing in Ys?

  Joreth’s voice called him back from his fears: “Evana served out her vestal period and was released. She married a merchant of Suffete class, a man of the Tyri, who are themselves kin to that line of descent. I was her last child and only daughter who lived. Since my grandmother had been a Queen, I too must become a vestal, though that requirement ends with me. My term concluded two years ago, from which you can reckon out that my age now is twenty—not too much more than Dahut’s.”

  “And, and when you became free?” He felt his face grow hot.

  Her answer was cooling: “I rejoiced. Poor Dahut, if she is like me in her heart. Aye, in her leisure time she shines brilliant, she is the center of a whirlpool of doings; but ’tis cruel to keep a spirited lass virgin that late. I’d already determined I’d be no household drudge, nor even a fine lady whose husband winks at her lovers. I’d be my own woman, and how else than as a courtesan?”

  She paused before adding softly, “Why dissemble, Carsa? I know quite well that I am the desire of men, the envy of my sisters in the life, less for my own sake—albeit I flatter myself I am attractive—than for my likeness to Dahut. Golden Dahut, quicksilver Dahut, who enthralls by her beauty and liveliness, but more, I think, by her strangeness, that slight sea-wind whisper of the Unknown, which she always bears about her.”

  He remembered the seal, and certain other things. “You… understand much, Joreth.”

  “’Tis my business to.” She leaned close. “What I offer you, Carsa, is a dream. You can keep your eyes open while you pretend to yourself I am Dahut; and I have skilled myself in her ways. But first I must know you as well as she does. Tell me, Carsa.”

  For a moment he recoiled. How could he thus besmirch that snow-pure maiden? Then he recollected her glances and motions, the wickedness of her wit. Oh, she was pagan through and through, and in all likelihood she knew about Joreth and was amused or, maybe, triumphant.

  “Speak,” Joreth breathed in his ear. Her fingers went lightly seeking over him.

  —He had not stayed abstinent. That was well-nigh impossible for a foreigner resident in Ys, unless he be a very holy man; many of the city’s women actively pursued variety. Three of Suffete rank had seduced him in turn. Corentinus had sighed to hear his confessions but not upbraided or penalized him much. Carsa had learned how to boast without being oafish: of the antique splendors and modern diversity in Burdigala, of his education and travels, of how he with his sling had once helped drive pirates away from his father’s ship. The ladies had drawn him out and listened with every sign of fascination. They were knowing as well as sightly, those ladies.

  They had nothing of Dahut about them.

  —Dazed, he stumbled down the stairs. When could he return? He had at least a year before him. This spring his father had left him off, commissioned to establish an office of the firm now that he was familiar with Ys and had useful connections there. He was also supposed to help propagate the Faith…. He would justify the trust, he would work like a horse to enlarge the business, so that out of his share he could afford to visit Joreth often. And, God forgive him, he would keep it from Corentinus….

  As he stepped into the ground-floor hall, astonishment smote him. Another man was entering. He recognized that medium-tall, supple figure, that countenance blue-eyed and snubnosed, that hair and youthful beard startling black against the white skin. Both walkers halted and stared.

  Tommaltach broke the silence. “Well, well!” he said. His Ysan carried a lilting accent. “Sure, and this is a surprise.” He grinned. “Or is it?”

  Carsa flushed. “What do you want here?” he demanded.

  “The same as you just had, I am thinking. Since I’m settled down in Ys—” The Scotian shrugged. “Jealousy would be foolish. We both are only biding of our time, along with the rest like us.”

  “Time?”

  “Come, boy, Joreth can’t have robbed you of your mind.” Since people were moving to and fro, Tommaltach stepped close and lowered is voice. “In two years, less a few months, Princess Dahut will be free.”

  “But who will she wed? Not you or me!”

  “Oh, I doubt she’ll content herself with any one man, ever.—Hold your anger! Don’t be striking me. You’ve seen her more than I have, you lucky rascal. Will you not join me in hoping we shall both be among those she blesses?”

  V

  1

  Although it was an offside room in the basilica at Turonum, for confidential conferences, the space where Gratillonius stood seemed chosen to dwarf him. Quite likely that was true. It would ordinarily have held ten or twenty men. Instead, he was alone—how alone—before two. The amanuensis who sat at a table and recorded words spoken did not count. He was a slave, less real than the images on shadowy walls. Those were recent, in fresh plaster covering whatever paganisms had formerly been depicted. The artist had lacked training. Yet the angular, elongated shapes staring out of their big eyes, Christ with His angels and stunts, somehow radiated power; they judged and condemned.

  Curtly summoned to report, the King of Ys stood before the governor and procurator of Lugdunensis Tertia. They sat in chairs large and ornate enough to be thrones, their togas warm around them, garments whose antiquatedness made him feel the weight of Imperial centuries. He had now been long on his feet. Entering out of mild weather, he had found his tunic and trousers inadequate against the chill here; it was gnawing inward as his knees wearied.

  “You remain obdurate?” asked the governor. Titus Scribona Glabrio was a fat man, but underneath jowls and paunch he carried hardness to match that of his gaunt associate. “In light of the Augustus’s decree, handed you to read for yourself, that worship of false gods is banned. Their temples and revenues confiscated for the use of the stated—you refuse your duty to promote the Faith or even to embrace it?”

  Gratillonius choked back a sigh. “With due respect, sir,” he answered, “we have discussed this at length today. I repeat, Ys is a sovereign nation. Its law requires that the King preside over the old rites. Your church has an able minister there; he and his congregation have my protection; more I cannot do, and remain King.”

  “You can be recalled, prefect, and as of now.”

  “Sir, I know. You can arrest me. But I ask you again, what then? Ys will be outraged. It will withdraw from the cooperation that I make bold to say has been priceless to Rome. As for the next King, Ys will do what it’s done in the past, when it lost one in some irregular way. It’ll find a new man to guard the Wood: purchased slave, volunteer tough, outlaw seeking refuge, makes no difference. What does matter is that he’ll be the creature of the magnates, because he’ll be ignorant and without cause for loyalty to Rome. Whether you let Ys pull back into isolation or you come and lay it waste, you’ll have lost the bulwark of Armorica.”

  Quintus Domitius Bacca, procurator, sent his words gliding serpentine: “How conscientious have you proven, through, Gratillonius? You encourage trade with the barbarians of Hivernia. I have thrice written to you, explaining how the influx of gold is upsetting the Imperial order, inducing people to hold the Emperor’s currency in contempt, bypass normal commercial channels, evade taxes, flout regulations, and seek with increasing frequency to flee those stations in life to which God has called them. But you will not cut it off.”

  “Sir, you have my dispatches,” Gratillonius replied. “I’ve done what I could about smuggling, but I still think the first job of our sea patrols is protection against piracy and aid to mariners in distress. It is not to stop merchant vessels for random searches. Meanwhile, traveling around, I’ve seen how by and large the people—all the Armorican tribes—how much better off they’re coming to be year by year, safer, healthier, decently fed and housed—”

  “Silence!” interrupted Glabrio. “We know of your activiti
es throughout the western half of the peninsula, far in excess of any mandate ever given you. What ambitions do you nourish for yourself?”

  Gratillonius stiffened. Anger ignited in him, to burn away fatigue. Nonetheless he chose his phrases with care. “Sir, I’ve explained that, over and over, not just today but through my letters and visits to your predecessor. I can’t understand why you insist on seeing me. Well, I did know what you’d ask and came prepared to answer.” Apuleius Vero had warned him four years ago, and repeatedly afterward; he had inquired on his own, and pondered what his discoveries meant. “I believe I did that the first hour today. Why have you been dragging me through it again—I’ve lost count of how many times, how many different ways—with never a chance to rest or a share in the refreshments brought you? Do you hope to wear me down? Sir, you’re wasting your time. I was interrogated under torture once, and that was also a waste of time, for the selfsame reason. There simply is nothing more to tell.”

  Glabrio flushed. “Are you being insolent?”

  “No, sir. I am being truthful, as a soldier should. I am still a centurion of the Second.”

  “A-a-ah,” murmured Bacca. The least smile played over his lips. “Shrewdly put. You are not altogether the blunt veteran you act. But we knew that already, didn’t we?”

  Within himself, Gratillonius eased slightly. They were accepting his reminder, these two, that their authority was limited to civil affairs. His position in Ys had always been anomalous, ambiguous, especially after the fall of Maximus who appointed him. It embraced both military and diplomatic functions. Breaking him would require—to a properly cautious official mind—the concurrence of the Duke at least, and quite possibly of higher-ranking men, perhaps Stilicho. Would those personages really think it worth a cost that might prove enormous?

  “There is a certain justice in your complaint, too,” Bacca went on. “We may have been thoughtless. Governor, shall we dismiss this man for the nonce? I do have other matters to take up with you in private.”

  Glabrio put on an appearance of considering before he said: “Very well. Gratillonius, you may go. Hold yourself in readiness for further interviewing tomorrow, should I decide that that is necessary. Farewell.”

  Gratillonius saluted. “Thank you, sir. Farewell.” He wheeled and marched out, aware that he had won his case—for the present, at any rate—and could soon start home. He was too tired to rejoice.

  When the door had closed behind him, Glabrio turned to Bacca and demanded, “Well, what is this you want to discuss?”

  “It requires privacy, I said,” replied the procurator, and sent the amanuensis off.

  Thereupon he leaned his sharp features close to his superior’s and continued: “That fellow did speak truth. I’ve been investigating virtually from the day you and I took office, and I know. The only reason to call him here was to take his personal measure. It’s formidable.”

  “I agree.” Glabrio frowned. “I do not agree that’s good.”

  “Nor do I. What could happen eventually to our careers, or our own selves, if Ys remains independent, with its influence growing for every year that passes? Now that’s been largely the work of Gratillonius. I do believe he has no desire to become another Maximus. He has merely made Ys—alien, pagan Ys—indispensable to the security and well-being of this flank of the Empire. If Rome destroys him, she undercuts the whole bastion he has built for her. And yet the activities and the very existence of Ys subvert the Imperium.” Bacca laughed. “Forgive mixed metaphors, but his is a Gordian knot indeed.”

  “Alexander cut the first Gordian knot across.”

  “Do you think of having Gratillonius done away with? I’d wager many solidi that any such attempt would fail. His escort, the old Roman legionaries and the young Ysan marines, they keep a close eye on their King. Win or lose, an effort to eliminate him would be recognized for what it was. In fact, I’m afraid that even his accidental death hereabouts would be assumed a murder commissioned by us. No, my friend, we’d better take special care to see that Gratillonius returns intact.”

  Glabrio shifted his broad bottom on the chair. “I know you,” he growled. “You have something in mind. Don’t shilly-shally the way you like to. I’m hungry.”

  “Well, then,” Bacca said, rather smugly, “in the course of my duties I have agents keeping track of what happens, and I follow up the more interesting clues myself. Lately there has arrived a malcontent from Ys who was quite high in its affairs until Gratillonius got him removed. We’ve had a couple of talks, he and I. Today I ordered that he come to the basilica and wait for our summons. Shall I call a slave to fetch him?”

  —Bitterly and fearlessly, Nagon Demari confronted the Romans and told them: “Of course I want that brotherfucker dead. Of course I’ve thought about how to do it.”

  “Remember,” said Glabrio, “we mustn’t alienate Ys. We must rather bring the city to obedience.”

  Nagon nodded. “Right.” His Latin was atrocious but understandable and improving daily. “Bring it to Christ. Right. I’m taking Christian instruction, sir. But if you don’t want to go in and outright conquer Ys—and that would leave a ruin, with my poor benighted longshoremen killed fighting against you—why, you’ll have to send your own man to chop Grallon down. Once he’s King, he can work with you to change things gradually.”

  Glabrio stroked his clean-shaven double chin. “We’ll have to be crafty about it,” he said, “though we can secretly direct his actions. It helps that Gratillonius himself has much strengthened the Kingship.”

  “The trouble is,” Nagon warned, “you get the Kingship by killing Grallon in the Wood, and he’s a troll of a fighter. How long’s it been since anybody dared challenge him? A dozen years? In spite of the fact he broke the law to spare that man. He wouldn’t spare the next; and meanwhile he keeps in practice. Word gets around.”

  “Furthermore,” Bacca said, chiefly to Glabrio, “some adventurer who did succeed in overcoming Gratillonius would not necessarily be the man we want in Ys. What foreknowledge of him would we have, what hold on him? What rewards could we promise for his cooperation, greater than he might find there for himself?”

  “Also,” the governor fretted, “if we sent the right man, how do we know he’d win?”

  “A succession of men,” Bacca said. “I’ve looked into the law of Ys. It’s not unlike the ancient rule at Lake Nemi in Italy. Our guest there has been most helpful in explaining. The King is required to meet every challenger, though just one per day. If he’s sick or badly hurt, the engagement is postponed till he’s well. Now if a contestant appears every day, without surcease, hardy and battle-trained men who have no fear of death—day after day after day, while his lesser wounds and his weariness accumulate—hell be done.”

  Glabrio grunted. “A pretty notion. Tell me where we’ll find this string of undiscourageable warriors.”

  “I can!” Nagon cried. “I know!”

  “Indeed? Well, before you name them, think. People in Ys are not stupid. Present company excepted, they seem on the whole rather attached to King Gratillonius. An influx of trained fighters such as you propose—no, it would much too obviously be at Roman instigation. It would have the same effect as killing him in this city. Or worse, because the victor, our man, would face a constitutional crisis like that which Brutus did after he met Caesar on the ides of March. The consequences are unforeseeable.”

  “The maneuver need not be at all obvious,” Bacca answered calmly. “Nagon has had a brilliant idea.”

  Standing before them, the Ysan raised a finger. Vengefulness made ice floes of his eyes. “You may lose a few to start with,” he admitted. “But before long you will get the kind of victor that we—you—that Rome can use, and safely, too, everything looking perfectly natural. Listen. Only listen a minute.”

  —At the hostel, Gratillonius went to its stable. There he saddled Favonius, after which he rode the stallion full speed to the Greater Monastery. He wanted to call on Martinus. Doubtless he’d h
ave to wait till the bishop finished whatever devotions were going on, but then, for a while, he could enjoy the company of an honest man.

  2

  “Ya Am-Ishtar, ya Baalim, ga’a vi khuwa—”

  The aurochs bull lifted his head. Sunlight gleamed off his horns and ran hotly down the great shoulders. Secure under his ward, cows and calves went on cropping the grass in the glade.

  “Aus-t ur-t-Mut-Resi, am ‘m user-t—”

  The young summer filled the forest with greeness and fragrance. Bees buzzed, touching noonday silence no more than did the whisper out of shadows. The bull blinked, drooped his neck, settled down to rest.

  “Belisama, Mother of Dreams, bring sleep unto him, send Your blind son to darken his mind and Your daughter whose feet are the feet of a cat to lead forth his spirit—”

  The bull’s head sank. He slept.

  Behind the growth of saplings that screened her, Dahut lowered the hand that had pointed at him as she cast the spell. “I did it,” she breathed, half unbelieving. “The Power flowed into me, through me, and—and for that space I was not myself, or I was beyond myself.”

  Forsquilis nodded. “You have the Gift in full measure, as far as we have tried you,” she answered, equally low-voiced. “I failed to throw the net of slumber the first time I sought to after learning how, and likewise the second time. But you—”

  She stopped, because the maiden had darted off, around the small trees, between a pair of giants, out into the glade and sunlight. There, gleefully, crowing laughter, Dahut sprang on the back of the bull, gripped his horns, rocked to and fro as if riding him. Her hair flowed wild over the woods-runner kirtle that, with breeks and sandals, clothed her. For a short space the cows regarded her drowsily, then one took alarm and lumbered in her direction. She jumped from her seat and scampered back under the forest roof. The cow returned to her calf.

  Forsquilis seized Dahut by the shoulders. Anger made the Queen’s face more pale than before and deepened the fine lines that had of late appeared around eyes and mouth. “Are you mad?” she gasped. “You knew not how deeply he sleeps, nor how long he will. He could have been roused, and that would have been the end of you, little fool, tossed, gored, stamped flat.”