Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  “But he wasn’t,” Dahut exulted. “I never feared he would be. The Gods wouldn’t let him.”

  Forsquilis’s fury calmed down to grimness. “Are you truly that vainglorious? Beware. Erenow They have found cause to disown mortals They once loved, and bring those persons to doom.” She paused. “My fault, mayhap, my mistake. I should have made your trial of this art something less, like putting a sparrow or a vole to rest. But I let you persuade me—”

  “Because I am born to the Power, and you know it!”

  “Come,” Forsquilis said. “Best we start back, if we’d reach the city ere sundown.” They had traveled a number of leagues east, beyond the boundary stones, well into Osismiic territory. There were woods in the hinterland of Ys, near the Nymphaeum, but those held too much mystery, too many Presences, for an apprentice witch to risk disturbing.

  Side by side, Queen and vestal walked toward the halting place of their escort. Brush was sparse beneath the trees, kept down by grazers such as they had found. Last year’s leaves rustled underfoot. Sometimes a bird winged across sun-speckled shade, bound to or from its young in their nest.

  “You must learn to be more careful, dear,” Forsquilis sighed after a while. “Aye, and more humble. Set beside you, a lynx is cautious and meek.”

  Dahut flushed. “Not when caged, ardent to be free.” She tossed her bright head. “Do you know this is the farthest from home I’ve have ever been, this wretched day-trip? Why would father not take me along to Turonum?”

  “Blame him not. He would gladly have done so, but we Nine together told him he must not yield to your wheedling. You’d have been too long agone from your Temple duties. He has shown you Audiarna more than once.”

  “That dreary pisspot of a town? Nay, not a town; a walled village, naught Roman about it save a few soldiers, and they natives.”

  “You overstate things. You often do.”

  “Outside, a whole world waiting! Ah, it shall be otherwise when the new Age begins, I vow.”

  “Bide your time,” Forsquilis counselled. “Master yourself. Today you bestrode an aurochs. When will you ride your own heart on roads wisely chosen? ’Tis apt to run away with you.”

  “Nay, ’tis I who choose to ride full speed—Hush!” Dahut snatched at Forsquilis’s arm and pulled her to a halt. “Look.”

  Ahead of them was another opening in the forest, where a spring bubbled forth. Here, too, new growth around the edges hid the pair from sight. Horses cropped, spancelled. Half a dozen men sat or sprawled idle. Metal shone upon them. They were legionaries of Gratillonius’s, guards of the royal two on this excursion. Reluctantly, they had obeyed the Queen’s order to wait while she led the vestal onward afoot.

  Mischief sparkled in Dahut’s glance. “Listen,” she hissed, “what a fine trick ’twould be to spell them to sleep. Then we could dust them with ants from yonder hill.”

  “Nay!” exclaimed Forsquilis, shocked. She made the girl look straight at her. “Worse than an unpleasant prank on those who deserve well of us. A base use of the Power, a mockery of the Gods Who granted it. Oh, Dahut, remember you are mortal.”

  The princess shrugged, smiled wryly, and proceeded ahead. As she came into view of the soldiers, the smile turned dazzling, and she answered their greetings with a flurry of blown kisses.

  Budic trod near. His fair skin reddened while he asked awkwardly, “Did all go as you wished, whatever you came here to do, my lady?”

  “Wondrous well,” she caroled. “Now, let’s be off. Let’s get into a road and put spurs to our beasts.”

  He went on one knee and folded his hands, to provide her a step up into the saddle. It was as if the weight he raised were holy.

  3

  Theuderich the Frank held broad acres some miles out of Condate Redonum. He farmed them not as a curial but as he pleased; the Romans had long since decided it was prudent to wink at their own law rather than try to enforce it upon laeti of this race. After a fire consumed his hall, he rebuilt it on a grand scale, for he had waxed wealthy.

  Thus he was at first unwilling to give more hospitality to a single traveler than his honor demanded—a place at the lower end of his board and a pallet on the floor for the night. If not a beggar, the man was plainly clad and indifferently mounted. If not a weakling, being short but broad, he was armed with only a Roman infantry sword and looked no more accustomed to its use than he was to riding. When he asked for a private talk with the master, Theuderich guffawed. Thereupon the fellow drew forth a letter of accreditation. Theuderich recognized the seal and did not trouble calling his slave accountant to read him the text. “Come,” he said, and ordered ale brought.

  He and the stranger, who named himself Nagon Demari, left the smoky dimness of the hall and walked through a drizzle of rain to a lesser building nearby. “The women’s bower,” Theuderich said. “It will do for us.” Large windows covered with oiled cloth made the single room within bright enough for his wife, his lemans, and their serving maids to work at the loom it held or sit on the stools sewing, spinning, chatting. He shooed out such as were present, closed the door behind him, and turned to his guest.

  For a short span, the men studied each other. In his mid-thirties, Theuderich was hulkingly powerful. A yellow beard spilled down from a ruddy face wherein the eyes glittered small by the broken nose. His garments were of excellent stuff but his smell was rank. “You’re neither German nor Gaul,” he grunted. “What, then?”

  “A man of Ys, now in the service of Rome like yourself,” Nagon answered.

  “Ys?” Theuderich’s countenance purpled. He lifted his ale horn as if to strike with it.

  Nagon barked a laugh. “Easy,” he said. “I’ve no more love for the King of Ys than you do. That’s why I’ve sought you out.”

  “Urn. Well, sit down and tell me. Speak slow. Your Latin’s hard to follow.”

  Nagon forbore to remark on his host’s accent. They hunched on opposed stools. Nagon tasted his ale. It was surprisingly good; but so quite often were Frankish fabrics, craftworks, jewelry. “I can understand your grudge against Ys,” he began. “Were you not among those who were set on by what turned out to be agents of its King—eleven years ago, I’ve heard?”

  “Yah,” Theuderich snarled. “My father Merowech vowed revenge. On his deathbed, he made my brothers and me swear to pursue it. Not that we needed haranguing. We’ve suffered more than that one hour of dishonor. Those tame Bacaudae are everywhere about these days, in the woods, the hills, the countryside. They turn our serfs against us. Again and again they’ve disrupted our preparations for sacrifice, till Wotan no longer gets men on His high days, but only horses. When we’ve gathered war bands to scour them out, they’ve faded away, to come back and shoot us full of arrows from cover, or cut the throats of our sentries after dark. And Rome will give us no help. None!”

  “Rome has her hands full,” Nagon said. “She finds the King of Ys… troublesome.” He leaned forward. “Hark, my lord.” His life had taught him when and how to flatter. “I have a plan to broach. I came first to you because, while you may not be the supreme leader of the Franks—since this colony of your free-souled folk scarcely has any such man—and you are not even the eldest living son of a great father: still, everybody tells me you are among the strongest and most respected in Armorica. They say also that you are wise, discreet, well able to keep silence until the time be ripe for action.”

  Theuderich puffed himself out. “Go on.”

  “Let me ask you a question. Considering what valiant men the Franks are, and what wrongs the Kins of Ys has done them, and what wealth and glory are to be had yonder, why has none of you ever gone to challenge him?”

  Theuderich glowered. His hand dropped to his dagger. “Dare you think we’re afraid?”

  “Oh, no, never. Surely you have a sound reason.”

  “Um. Well.” Theuderich drank deep, belched, and scratched in his beard. “Well, the fact is that Grallon hound is a legionary of the old kind, what you can hardly
get anywhere any more. I’ve looked into this myself, I have. Men have told me how he’s minced his opponents like garlic cloves, and always wins over his sparring partners. What gain in letting him chew up others? Whoever did take him would likely be too badly hurt to get much use out of being King of Ys. Besides, challengers would pester him to his own death.”

  “This could be changed,” Nagon said softly.

  Theuderich sat upright. “How?”

  “What if Grallon had to fight a man every day? The first few might die—gloriously—but soon he would be tired and battered, easy prey.”

  Theuderich slumped. “That’s been thought of. Can’t be done. Ys would never let so many armed strangers in at once; and she’s got the force to keep them out. Anyhow, we can’t make war on Ys. It’s a Roman ally, and we’re Roman subjects. Stilicho would be quick to punish us. He may not be too fond of Ys either, but he doesn’t stand for that sort of disorder, as—we’ve learned.”

  “It could be arranged,” Nagon purred. “Suppose the Ysan troops were elsewhere. Suppose then the Franks marched in and established themselves. It would not be an act of war, for how could the Ysans put up a fight? It would be without Roman permission, but also without official Roman knowledge. By the time these doings could no longer be ignored, Grallon would be dead. The new King of Ys would find the Imperial authorities quite willing to pardon any offense against their law, in return for a payment that he could easily make out of the city treasury. Thereafter he could go about lifting the burden off you, his people, that Grallon laid on you. He would be a hero. So would those be who died to prepare the way for him. Their fame would be immortal.”

  As he talked, Theuderich had begun shivering and panting. At the end, the Frank bayed. “How can this happen?”

  “We will talk about that,” Nagon said. “Pray understand, my lord, the new King need not—must not—become a sacrificial animal waiting for slaughter. His aim shall be to change everything there, piece by piece, until at last he can bequeath the city to Rome, the way I’ve heard the kingdom of Pergamum was. The Romans will quietly guide him. They won’t interfere with his pleasures. Think, nine lovely wives, and the fabulous city itself! In the end, Ys will be Christian, but this King we’re talking about cannot be, if he’s to lead the rites as he must, unless maybe in his old age he chooses baptism. Oh, a Frankish warrior would be perfect. He’d be an omen foreshadowing the future of all Gallia.”

  Theuderich stared.

  4

  One evening before midsummer, a sunset of rare beauty kindled above Ocean. For a timeless time clouds shone with rose and gold and every hue between, against a clear blue that slowly deepened toward purple. The waters breathed calm, giving back to heaven those changeable colors. Whenever it seemed the splendor was about to fade into that night which had already led forth the first eastern stars, fieriness broke free again. Entranced, folk throughout Ys swarmed onto the wall; their murmurs of wonder were as low as the sea’s.

  Rufinus was one of them. He could have watched from the Polaris, but not as well. On his way, he knocked on the door of Tommaltach, who occupied rooms below his. Together they hastened by the shipyard and up the staircase there. Being important men, they won admission past the guards at the Raven Tower, away from the crowd and onto the stretch where the war engines were. Only a few Suffetes and ladies had done likewise. Those couples or individuals kept well apart, desirous of nothing except the miracle before them. The two comrades recognized Queens Bodilis and Tambilis at some distance, but did not venture greetings.

  Finally glory smoldered away forever. People grew conscious of chill in the air and began to descend while they still had light. More and more stars trembled above inland hills. The western clouds had gone smoky.

  “Ah, that was a sight of the Beyond, and I thank you for calling me to it,” Tommaltach said. “The flames of Mag Mell—though it may be what we have glimpsed is from somewhere greater, from One Who is above the Gods.”

  Rufinus laughed. “You’re too serious for a young lad,” he answered. “Come along to my apartment and we’ll pour a stoup and be our proper, roisterous selves.”

  Tommaltach’s vision strained into the gathering dusk. “Was Princess Dahut here to see? I do hope so.”

  As they approached the Raven Tower, several men came from its door. They wore vestments above their clothes. It was not yet too dark to discern the features of Cynan, Verica, Maclavius, a few Ysans—and, in the lead, King Gratillonius, Father of the Mithraic congregation.

  Feet halted. Rufinus and Tommaltach touched their brows. “Hail, lord,” they said. Gratillonius responded.

  Rufinus’s teeth flashed in the blackness of his fork beard. “A pity this was a holy day of yours,” he remarked. Clearly it was, for ordinarily a believer would just say a prayer wherever he happened to be at nightfall. “While you were underground worshipping the sun, he gave the rest of us the most marvelous spectacle.”

  “’Twas Mithras we communed with,” Gratillonius reminded him, “and His light shone upon our souls.” A certain exaltation lingered in him. “My friend, if you would only listen—”

  Rufinus shook his head. Pain edged his tones. “Nay, I’ll not pretend what is false… before you. Never can I be a communicant of your faith.”

  “You’ve told me that erenow, but will not say why. Surely—”

  “Never.”

  Tommaltach quivered. “But I, sir!” burst from him. “I would try my best to understand.”

  Gratillonius regarded him as closely as the dimness allowed. “Think well,” he said. “This is naught to trifle with.”

  “Nor do I mean to.” Tommaltach’s voice had lost his usual confident cheer. “What I’ve been watching—Oh, but ’tis more than that. Since coming to Ys and knowing—you—well, the city, the world beyond, enough to see that I really know nothing—The gods of Ériu are far off, sir, and They seem so small.”

  “Mock Them not. However—” Gratillonius smiled. He reached forth to clasp the Scotian’s arm. “Of course well talk, you and I, and if you come to believe in all honesty that Mithras is Lord, why, I myself will lead you into His mysteries,” said the father of Dahut.

  VI

  1

  Rain had left the air humid. As the sun declined, vapors reddened its disc, but fog would not likely roll in to cool Ys before dawn. Gratillonius was almost glad to come off the street into the house of Maldunilis.

  Zisa, her daughter and his, admitted him with a perfunctory “Hail.” This year the girl had had her Welcoming, but to her that stage of life had brought sullenness, perhaps because it first brought fat and pimples.

  “How went your day?” Gratillonius made himself ask.

  She grimaced and shrugged. “A day at the Temple. You’re late. The servants are trying to keep dinner from getting ruined.”

  “I’d duties of my own,” he snapped. Before he could go on to rebuke her for insolence, Maldunilis entered the atrium. That was just as well. Gratillonius stalked to meet her and join both pairs of hands as was fitting.

  The Queen looked closely at him. “Again you have a thunderstorm in your face,” she said. “What’s gone awry this time?”

  He gazed back. Over the years she had added flesh to flesh, though her frame was large enough that as yet she did not appear quite gross. Her features remained good in their heavy fashion and her hair was still a burnished red-brown. It was untidily piled on her head, like the raiment on her body. He had grown used to that. He had also grown acceptant of the fact that her interest in civic affairs, or in most things, was weak; she passively accepted the decisions her Sisters reached.

  “No need to trouble you now,” he said, as often before. “You’ll soon hear.”

  If only this were Bodilis, Lanarvilis, Vindilis for counsel; Forsquilis, Tambilis for instilling fire; Innilis, even Guilvilis for the peacefulness that nurtures. But tonight was Maldunilis’s turn with the King. Well, she had her rights, and she was by no means a bad person, and a man ought t
o shoulder his burdens without whining about them.

  She nodded. “Come,” she said, “food waits.”

  She, or rather her cook, set an excellent table. This evening Gratillonius scarcely noticed what was before him, except for the wine. Of that he took several helpings. Maldunilis chattered for both of them; that too was common in their marriage. “—Then Davona—do you know Davona? She’s that blond underpriestess who renewed her vows after being widowed two years ago, but believe me, she’s a husband-hunting hussy—Davona claimed the foxglove had lain stored too long and lost its virtue, and that was why that poor gangrel we took into the hospice died, but I know she wants to be the one who goes with the gatherers to bless the herb, because there’ll be handsome young marines along—

  “Grallon, why did you scowl so?”

  He shook his head. “’Tis naught. Go on.”

  “What else? Oh. Well, later that same day I saw my dressmaker. I do need a new outfit for Midsummer, and the price she named—”

  Zisa was silent, systematically feeding. Always she watched her parents. Her eyes were small; they made Gratillonius think of a sow’s eyes.

  Sometimes he wished he could like, or at least not dislike, this child of his. The rest were pleasant, certain of them more than that. Bodilis’s Una, newly fifteen, and Tambilis’s Estar, four, almost rivaled Dahut as she was and had been. Of course, they were her close kin. He shied from that remembrance. Vindilis’s Augustina was turning a little strange in her vestalhood, doubtless taking after her strong-willed, aloof mother. The same might be said of Forsquilis’s Nemeta, but she was a spirited lass and often cheerful. Tambilis’s older girl, Semuramat, and Lanarvilis’s Julia were rather solemn, yet never withheld affection from him. Guilvilis’s six, ranging from fifteen to three, were very ordinary people who accorded him the same awe, and some of the same love, she did…