Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  Dahut slouched beside Bodilis through the atrium painted with dolphins and sea birds. “I came because ’twas you who asked. But try me not too hard.”

  Bodilis squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “’Tis life and fate are doing that to you, darling. Have you the courage to meet them calmly?”

  Dahut’s nostrils flared. She tossed her head.

  They passed into the long room full of scholarly and artistic materials. Dahut halted. Breath hissed between her teeth.

  Gratillonius remained seated. He offered a smile. “Be of good cheer,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry if I frightened you… earlier. You are the daughter of my Dahilis, and I love you. Bodilis lent herself to this little ruse because else you might not have agreed to see me for much too long. We want naught save to make peace.”

  Dahut stared at the Queen. “You knew?” she asked.

  Bodilis nodded. “Your father bared his heart to me.”

  “I have to none other,” Gratillonius said with the same roughness. “Nor will I. Sit down, dear one. Have some wine if ’twill ease you.”

  Dahut sank to the edge of a chair. Bodilis took a third. They sat in a triangle. Silence clamped it tight.

  Bodilis broke though. “Dahut,” she said gently, “what you sought to do was wild. Thank the Mother, thank Her throughout your life, that it failed. But your father is not angry with you. Not anymore. You are young, wounded, distraught. Come back to us and let us heal you.”

  A flush passed across the pallor that lay like a mask on the face of the maiden. Fury spat: “What did I wrong? I would have claimed my rights, and the rights of the Gods. He refuses them!”

  “Would you have consummated the marriage ere the wedding?”

  “Since I must.”

  “That was surely why the Power of the Goddess was not in you.”

  Dahut moistened her lips and looked into her father’s eyes. “You can still make it well between us,” she said.

  Gratillonius clutched the arms of his chair. “Not in the way you call for,” he stated. “Bodilis persuaded me ’twas folly in you, rather than wickedness. Well, learn from your mistake. Take thought.”

  “We know not what form the new Age shall bear,” Bodilis added. “Can we shape it ourselves? We can strive, at least. Imagine a Queen who chooses her King freely, has him to herself, will not lose him in a fight against some wanderer who beds her with the blood scarcely off his hands.”

  “What would you have me do?” Dahut retorted.

  “Be patient while we make our way forward.”

  “Into what?”

  “The unknown.”

  “Nay, I’ll tell you whither you’re bound.” Dahut sprang to her feet. Poised before them, she jeered: “You’d have me renounce the Gods, the whole meaning and soul of Ys. Where then shall I seek? Your Mithras will not receive me. Cybele is dead. Christ waits. You’d make Christians of us!”

  “If need be, aye,” said Gratillonius starkly. “I’ve lain awake nights bethinking this. ’Twould ease most of our troubles. There are worse Gods.”

  “Nay!” Dahut screamed. She pounced across the floor, snatched the wine flagon off a table, cast it against the wall. It cried aloud as it smashed. Shards flew. Redness like blood spattered over books. Bodilis moaned and half rose.

  Dahut crouched back. Her countenance had gone inhuman with rage. “Christ be cursed! Lir haul me under ere I give myself to Christ! But I’ll be Queen, true Queen, foremost of the Nine, and the name I take shall be Brennilis!”

  She flung the door open and sped from them, out into the sunset.

  6

  Next day Gratillonius spoke privately with Rufinus, in the palace.

  “We must look to our defenses,” he said, using the Latin that was customary between them.

  The Gaul regarded him. “You’ve no idea of making war on Rome,” he murmured. “However, if Ys should become a very hard oyster to open—”

  “Ys can become an ally more valuable than it has been,” Gratillonius interrupted. “We’ve sea power, but hardly any on land. The Franks may have learned what their proper place is, but they’ll forget eventually, and meanwhile there’ll be Germani—Alani, Huns, who knows?—pushing westward. What I have in mind—this will take years, obviously, and won’t be easy—it’s to mesh ourselves with the Armorican tribes, especially our Osismiic neighbors, somewhat as we’ve done navally with Rome. They supply most of the manpower, we supply cadre and much of the weaponry.”

  “Hm.” Rufinus tugged his fork beard. “How will the Romans take to that?”

  “We’ll have to show them how much better it’ll work than slovenly mercenaries and raw reservists. Maximus’s veterans have made a difference already, and the former Bacaudae will be priceless in case of invasion. What we can do for a start—a start toward forming a true regional militia—is simply to tighten and enlarge that fellowship. You’ll be essential to this. But tell me frankly if you think the idea has merit.”

  “Quite a conundrum, sir!” laughed Rufinus. The discussion that followed occupied a couple of hours. They decided the plan was a least worth pursuing further… after present difficulties had been resolved.

  As he was readying to leave, Rufinus gave the King a long look. “You’re grieved,” he said slowly. “More than just your conflict over Dahut should warrant. Would you care to talk about it? You know I’m a miser where it comes to secrets.”

  Gratillonius reddened. “How did you get any such ridiculous notion?” he growled.

  “I’ve come to know you over the years,” Rufinus answered, almost sorrowfully. “Tour tone of voice—oh, everything about you of late—” He formed a wry half-grin. “Well, I’ll be off before you boot me out. If ever I can help, I am your man.” He sketched a Roman salute and departed.

  7

  Tambilis visited Guilvilis. Bedridden still, the injured Queen was seldom free of pain, which lifted in her like a spear, but endured it dumbly. Her children, the younger ones in particular, provided distraction of a sometimes chaotic sort. Nonetheless she welcomed her Sister.

  “You’re sweet to come,” she said from the pillow. “They don’t all, you know.”

  Tambilis’s gaze went uneasily around the room. Dusk was fading the gaudy, foolish trinkets Guilvilis liked. “Well, they, they do have many duties,” she mumbled.

  Guilvilis sighed. “They are afraid. I know they are. They fear I got hurt because the Gods were angry with me.”

  “Oh, now—” Tambilis took hold of the hand that plucked at the blanket.

  “Well, I am not afraid,” Guilvilis said. “Grallon isn’t.”

  “He comes here too?”

  “Aye. Didn’t you know? He comes when he can find time. ’Tis kind of him. We’ve naught to say to each other. He can only sit where you’re sitting. But he does come see me. I think his Mithras God will protect us.”

  Tambilis flinched and drew a sign. “Well,” she said with forced cheer, “let me give you the newest gossip from the marketplace.”

  “Nay, please,” Guilvilis replied earnestly, “tell me how he fares.”

  “But you told me he visits you.”

  “We can’t talk.” Guilvilis swallowed tears. “He’s been… heavy. Something hurts him. What is it, Tambilis?”

  “I have not… seen him, spoken with him… save as affairs of the city or the Temples require…. He goes about his rounds. Aye, he keeps very busy.”

  “Is it this thing with Dahut? How is Dahut?”

  “She holds aloof. Ranges alone into the countryside, gone for hours at a stretch. Shuns or scamps all tasks. How can we compel her, if we reckon her a Queen? I tried to speak with her, but she told me to go away. And we were good friends once. May that come again.”

  “If only Grallon—Could you make Grallon wed her, Tambilis? Then everything would be well, would it not? You’re beautiful. He might listen to you.”

  “Not while I—But I know not if I can continue thus, when he’s so sad.” Tambilis shook her h
ead violently. After a moment she brightened her voice. “Come, this is useless. Let me tell you of a comic thing that happened yesterday at Goose Fair.”

  8

  The moon waned toward the half. Each night was noticeably longer than the last.

  Fog stole in from the sea during one darkness. At dawntide it hid heaven and blinded vision beyond a few yards. It also damped sound; the noise of surf under Cape Rach drifted in its gray as a remote hush-hush-hush. Sere grass dripped underfoot. Dankness gnawed.

  Out through the swirling, between a lichenous tomb and a canted headstone, came Forsquilis from the necropolis. Her gown and cloak were stained, drenched, her hair lank and eyes bloodshot. A tall form waited. Nearing, she recognized whose it was, and halted. For the span of several wavebeats she confronted Corentinus.

  “What do you here, Christian?” she asked finally, tonelessly.

  The ghost of a smile stirred the stiff gray beard. “I might inquire the same of you, my daughter.”

  “I am no lamb of your flock.” Forsquilis made to pass by.

  Corentinus lifted his staff. “Hold, I pray you.”

  “Why?”

  “For the sake of Ys.”

  Forsquilis considered the rugged features. The sea mumbled, the fog smoked. “You have had a vision,” she said.

  He nodded. “And you.”

  “I sought mine.”

  Compassion softened his words. “At terrible cost. Mine sought me out of love.”

  “What did it reveal?”

  “That you had gone to beg a remedy for the sickness devouring Ys. I know better than to tell you, here and now, that what you did is forbidden. In your mind, it is not. But I know that you asked for bread and were given a stone.”

  Forsquilis stood moveless a minute before she asked, “Will you give me your oath to keep silence?”

  “Will you accept a Christian vow?”

  “I will take your word of honor.”

  “You have it.”

  Forsquilis nodded. “You’ve been many years among us,” she said. “I believe you.

  “Well, what I may relate is scant. It concerns Dahut. She attempted something. It was impossible, you’d call it fearsome, but she was desperate. I, through my arts, had some forewarning, and… followed along. Dahut failed. She has not yielded, rather she is bound on her purpose though hell and Ocean lie before her.”

  “Possessed,” said Corentinus grimly.

  Forsquilis spread her hands from under the waterlogged mantle. “In Ys we would say fated. Be that as it may, this night I sought to learn what I might do toward the rescue of us all.”

  Corentinus waited.

  The Athene face twisted in anguish. “I can do nothing! I may do nothing. My lips are locked, my skills are fettered, lest I seek to thwart the revenge of the Gods on Grallon. So did it command me.”

  “What if you disobey?” asked Corentinus.

  “Horror upon Ys.”

  “As the pagan Gods visited plague on Thebes because of the sin of Oedipus. But yours would do Their harm because of the righteousness of Gratillonius. The true God is otherwise, my daughter.”

  Forsquilis clenched her fists. “Hold back your preaching!”

  “I will, I will. You must, then, stand aside while Gratillonius goes to his doom?”

  Forsquilis swallowed, blinked, jerked forth a nod.

  “Why do you appeal to me?” Corentinus went on, still quietly.

  “Can you help him, somehow, anyhow?” she cried.

  The fog was parting, dissolving. A sunbeam lanced through.

  “That lies with him,” the pastor said. “And with God.”

  Forsquilis snapped a breath and strode from him. Soon she was lost in the mist. He remained behind to pray for mercy on every soul gone astray.

  9

  Dusk deepened. More and more stars glimmered into sight. Processional Way was a ribbon of pallor between meadow and heights on the right, the Wood of the King on the left, where wind mourned through the oaks. Ys gleamed faintly ahead.

  Dahut rode homeward. Formerly her father would have required an escort for her, safe though the hinterland was these days, but now she claimed independence—not that they had met of late, those two.

  A man bounded soft-gaited from the edge of the Wood and loped along at her foot. She clucked to the horse before she knew Rufinus and eased. “What will you?” she greeted him.

  Eyeballs and teeth caught what light lingered, sulfur-yellow in the west. “I’ve a warning for you, Princess.” He spoke as coldly as the wind blew.

  Dahut sat erect in the saddle. “Well, say on.”

  “Your father, my King, to whom I am sworn—he is in pain on your account. He is not at war with you, but you are with him.”

  “Be off, mongrel!”

  “I will not until you have heard me. Listen, Princess.”

  “Queen.”

  “Listen to me. I’ve my ways of finding out. We needn’t go into what I’ve learned and what I’ve reasoned—not yet—not ever, if you behave yourself. But hear me, Dahut. There shall be no plotting against my King. I make no accusations. I merely say it is banned. I am ready to defend him however necessary or—” a dagger slid forth—“if necessary, avenge him. Do you understand, my lady?” Rufinus chuckled. “Surely you, his daughter, are glad to hear this. Let me bid you a very good evening.”

  He slipped into the shadows. Dahut spurred her horse to a gallop.

  10

  The day was calm and crisp. Waves rolled almost softly against the wall of Ys and scarcely troubled its open harbor basin. Inland, autumn colors dappled the hills.

  Gratillonius stood on the top, above the sea gate, with Cothortin Rosmertai, Lord of Works. “Nay,” he told the fussy little man, “the sample taken shows the doors continue sound. However, it does hold dampness. Dry rot will start creeping under the metal. Within—oh, ten or fifteen years, the wood will be weakened. We must replace it ere then.”

  “Of course, of course.” Cothortin pulled at his chin. “Although that’s a huge task. ’Tis not been done in living memory.”

  “I know. Yet the records show how, and we’ve time to train craftsmen and divers, everyone we’ll need. What we should set in train soon is the cutting and seasoning of the oak.”

  Cothortin pondered. In his fashion, he was competent. “Aye, you’re right, my lord. The Osismiic forests—and when conditions are as unsettled as they regrettably are, ’tis wise to be beforehand.”

  “As it happens,” Gratillonius told him, “I’ve need to visit Aquilo and discuss various matters, such as our policy toward Rome, this month. I can also raise the question of timber.”

  Cothortiri gave a small, anxious sniff. “Should you leave Ys, my lord, under… present circumstances?”

  “’Tis a short trip. I’ll be back in time to stand my regular Watch.”

  The longing swelled inside Gratillonius—to be off, away, however briefly, to someplace where the Gods of Ys had no dominion.

  XI

  1

  It was two years since he had last seen Apuleius Vero, when the tribune came to Ys, and four since he had last been in Aquilo. They had corresponded, but sporadically. Gratillonius was no writer, and besides, language must be guarded, in case a letter fell into certain hands. Entering the small city, he observed new construction, streets fuller and noisier, a pair of coasters at the wharf despite the late season. The hinterland had also looked still more prosperous, better cared for, than formerly. What a shame if this should be lost, he thought.

  Dismissing his escort to quarters and giving Adminius charge of Favonius, he went on afoot to the house of the Apuleii. A crowd eadied around, people knew and hailed him, the air of welcome was almost overpowering after his loneliness. Word had flown ahead, and Apuleius waited in person at the door. They clasped arms tightly.

  “How good to see you again, friend,” the tribune said with as much warmth as he ever allowed into his tones. He had grown more gray and his hairline had rece
ded further, but the finely chiseled features were free of any slackness. “Come in, do.” He beckoned a slave to take the luggage which an Ysan marine had carried after the King.

  They entered the atrium. The same chaste floral patterns as before decorated it, except that one wall panel had been done over; now stems and blossoms entwined a Chi Rho. Gratillonius noticed, too, that while Apuleius’s tunic remained of fine woolen fabric, carefully tailored and meticulously cleaned, it lacked olden touches of color and elegance. “I trust you can stay for several days and get well rested,” the host said. “You look terribly fatigued. Was it a hard journey here?”

  “Not at all,” Gratillonius answered. “In fact, refreshing. But you must have seen in my message that I’ve got serious matters to talk over with you, though I didn’t spell them out. We—”

  A ten-year old boy erupted from the inner doorway and sped across the mosaic. “Oh, sir, you’re here!” he cried.

  Apuleius lifted a hand, smiling. “Hush, Salomon,” he reproved. “Where are your manners?”

  Gratillonius grinned. “Warriors will charge forward,” he said, “if you’re still like what your father was telling me in Ys. Caution, however, caution is always in order. We may get in a bit of shieldwork this trip, you and I.” He was fond of the lad. Abruptly, a blow to the throat, he felt how like a son of his own this of Apuleius was, the son that nine times nine Gallicenae could never give him.

  Salomon’s blue eyes widened. “You’ve brought me a shield?” he blurted.

  “For shame,” his father said. “Greed is a sin, and barbarous as well.”

  “I don’t want to undermine your authority,” Gratillonius said, “but it did occur to me that this fellow must have outgrown the sword I gave him last time, and he is about ready to make acquaintance with other gear. Later, Salomon. Uh, how’s the rest of the family?”

  “In excellent health, by God’s mercy,” Apuleius replied. “Verania is to market with her mother. They should return soon. Meanwhile, shall we get you settled in? Salomon, go back to your lessons. I will expect better answers this evening than yesterday, when I question you about your Livius, or there will be no excursion to the farm for you tomorrow.” He took Gratillonius’s elbow. “Come. Wine awaits, and first a slave to wash your feet.”