Never himself a soldier, Rufinus had watched legionaries come to attention. He tried for a civilian version of it. Momentarily, Stilicho’s lips quirked.
The smile blinked out, the look became somber. “You should have left word where you would be today,” Stilicho rumbled.
“I’m sorry, uh, sir. I had no idea my presence would be wanted.”
“Hm. Why not? You’ve been buzzing enough about the court and … elsewhere.”
“The Master knows everything.”
Stilicho’s fist thudded on the table. “Stow that grease. By the end of each day, it drips off me. Speak plain. You’re no straightforward courier for the King of Ys. You’re at work on his behalf, aren’t you?”
Rufinus answered with the promptitude he saw would be best for him. “I am that, sir. It’s no secret. The Master knows Ys and its King—the tribune of Rome—are loyal. More than loyal; vital. But we have our enemies. We need a spokesman at the Imperium.” He paused for three pulse-beats. “Rome needs one.”
Stilicho nodded. “At ease. I don’t question your motives. Your judgment—that may be another matter. Though you’ve shown a good deal of mother wit, from what I hear. As in finding that ring stolen from the lady Lavinia.”
Without relaxing alertness, Rufinus let some of the tension out of his muscles. “That was nothing, sir. When I compared the stories told by members of the household, it was clear who the thief must be.”
“Still, I don’t know who else would have thought to go about it that way, and save a lot of time and torture.” The general brooded for a moment. “You call Ys vital. So did the letters you brought, and the arguments were not badly deployed. But it’s a slippery word. How vital was, say, the Teutoburg Forest? We don’t know yet, four hundred years later. Sit down.” He pointed at a stool. “I want to ask a few questions about Ys.”
—Beeswax candles had the main room of the apartment aglow. Dion woke at Rufinus’s footsteps and was on his own feet before the door had opened. “Oh, welcome!” he cried; and then, seeing the visage: “What’s happened, my soul, what is it?”
Rufinus lurched across the floor. Dion hastened to close the door and meet him by the couch. “Stilicho told me at last,” Rufinus mumbled. “He drew me out first, but he told me at last.”
Dion caught the other’s hands. “What is it?” he quavered.
“Oh, I can’t blame Stilicho. I’d have done the same in his place. He needed my information calmly given, because he will never get it elsewhere, not ever again. Nobody will.” Rufinus’s long legs folded under him. He sank onto the seat and gaped at emptiness.
Dion sat down at his side and caressed him. “T-t-tell me when you w-want to. I can wait.”
“A dispatch came today,” said Rufinus. His words fell like stones, one by one. “Ys died last month. The sea came in and drowned it.”
Dion wailed.
Rufinus rattled a laugh. “Be the first of the general public to know,” he said. “Tomorrow the news will be all over town. It’ll be a sensation for at least three days, if nothing juicier happens meanwhile.”
Dion laid his head in Rufinus’s lap and sobbed.
Presently Rufinus was able to stroke the curly hair and mutter, “There, now; good boy; you cry for me, of course, not for a city you never knew, but that’s natural; you care.”
Dion clung. “You are not forsaken!”
“No, not entirely. The King escaped, says the dispatch. Gratillonius lives. You’ve heard me speak of him aplenty. I’m going to him in the morning. Stilicho gave me leave. He’s by no means an unkindly man, Stilicho.”
Dion raised his face. “I am with you, Rufinus. Always.”
The Gaul shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my dear,’ he replied almost absently, still staring before him. “I shall have to send you back to Quintilius. With a letter of praise for your service. I can do that much for you before I go—”
“No!” screamed Dion. He slipped from the couch and went on his knees, embracing the knees of Rufinus. “Don’t leave me!”
“I must.”
“You said—you said you love me.”
“And you called yourself the Antinöus to my Hadrianus.” Rufinus looked downward. “Well, you were young. You are yet, while I have suddenly become old. I could never have taken you along anyhow, much though I’ve wanted to. It would make an impossible situation.”
“We can keep it secret,” Dion implored.
Again Rufinus shook his head. “Too dangerous for you, lad, in the narrow-minded North. But worse than that, by itself it would destroy you. Because you see—” he searched for words, and when he had found them must force them forth—“my heart lies yonder. It’s only the ghost of my heart that came down here. Now the ghost has to return from Heaven to earth, and endure.
“Someday you’ll understand, Dion,” he said against the tears. “Someday when you too are old.”
3
Osprey came to rest on a day of mist-fine rain, full of odors sweet and pungent from an awakening land. Maeloch had inquired along the way and learned that this was where the River Ruirthech met the sea, the country of the Lagini on its right and Mide, where Niall of the Nine Hostages was foremost among kings, to the left. He steered along the north side of the bay looking for a place to stop, and eventually found it. Through the gray loomed a great oblong house, white against brilliant grass. It stood a short distance from the water, at the meeting of two roads unpaved but well-kept, one following the shore, one vanishing northwesterly. “Belike we can get hospitality here,” he said. His voice boomed through the quiet. “Watch your tongues, the lot o’ ye.” Several of his men knew a Hivernian dialect or two, some of them better than he.
They made fast at a rude dock. By that time they had been seen, and folk had come from the house or its outbuildings. They were both men and women, without weapons other than their knives and a couple of spears. The compound was not enclosed by an earthen wall as most were. A portly red-bearded fellow trod forward. “Welcome to you, travelers, so be it you come in peace,” he called. “This is the hostel of Cellach maqq Blathmaqqi. Fire is on the hearth, meat on the spit, and beds laid clean for the weary.”
Such establishments were common throughout the island—endowed with land and livestock so that their keepers could lodge free all wayfarers, for the honor of king or tribe and the farthering of trade. “Maeloch son of Innloch thanks yuh,” he replied ritually. “We from Armorica.” That much would be plain to any man who knew something of the outside world, as they surely did here.
“A long way you’ve come, then,” said Cellach.
Maeloch beckoned to a crewman who had been on trading voyages to Mumu and could speak readily. “The storm at fall moon blew us off course for the south of your country,” that sailor explained. “Having made repairs afterward, and being where we were, we thought to do what had been in many minds and see if we could find a new market for our wares.” That was true, as far as it went. To be caught in an outright lie would mean the contempt of the Scoti and end any chance of talking with them.
Cellach frowned. “Himself at Temir is no friend to the Romans or their allies.” He brightened. “But his grudges are not mine, nor are they the grudges of my tuath and our own king. Let us help you with your gear and bring you to our board.”
“Yuh no afraid enemies?” asked Maeloch on the way up.
“We are not,” Cellach replied. “Do you see rath or guards? True, the Lagini were close by, but they could never have come raiding without being spied in time for men to rally from the shielings around about. And Temir is some twenty leagues off; though the King there is often away, warriors aplenty would soon be avenging. Even in days when the hostel was founded, the Lagini left this strand alone. And now Niall has reaped their land with his sword, and afterward the poet Laidchenn called famine into it, till nobody dwells across from Clón Tarui. What my wife and I fear, so long as the sky does not fall, is only that we may fail to guest our visitors as grandly as did my mothe
r, the widow Morigel, who had this place before me.”
The main house was built of upright poles with wicker-work between, the whole chinked and whitewashed, the thatch of the roof intricately woven. Windows let in scant light, but lamps hung from the beams, which were upheld by pillars, and a fire burned in a central pit. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes. Furnishings were merely stools and low tables; however, hangings, albeit smoke-blackened, decorated the walls. One side of the cavernous space was filled by cubicles. Two wooden partitions, about eight feet high, marked off each; the third side stood open toward the east end of the hall, revealing a bed that could hold two or three. “You’re few enough that you can sleep alone,” laughed Cellach, “the which is not needful for those among you who are lucky.”
True to his promise, when the mariners had shed their wet outer garments and shoes, he settled them at the small tables. Women brought ale and food. Scoti customarily took their main meal in the evening, but this midday serving was generous, beef, pork, salmon, bread, leeks, nuts, unstinted salt. The one who filled Maeloch’s platter was young, buxom, auburn-haired and freckle-faced. She brushed against him more than once, and when he looked her way she returned a mischievous smile. “Ah, a daughter of mine, Aebell,” said the landlord. He had joined the captain and Usun at their table. “It seems as though she favors you.” Proudly: “If true, you are lucky indeed, indeed. She’s unwed thus far, but not for lack of men. Why, King Niall beds her and none else when he honors this house.”
The eyes narrowed in Usun’s leathery countenance. “When was that last, may I ask?” he murmured.
“Och, only some eight or nine days agone, though long since the time before. He came here in a Saxon kind of ship, which his crew took onward while himself and a few warriors borrowed horses of me and rode straight to Temir in the morning. That was a wild night, I can tell you. They drank like whirlpools and swived like stallions. Something fateful had happened abroad for sure. But the King would not let them say what.” Cellach shook his head and looked suddenly troubled. “I talk too much.” He made a sign against misfortune.
Maeloch and Usun exchanged a glance. It was as if winter had stolen back upon them.
Nevertheless Maeloch donned a gruff heartiness when he sought out Aebell. She was easy to find, and free for a while. He invited her to come see his craft. Poor though his command of the language was, she listened eagerly as he hacked his way through it. He could follow her responses, and his skill grew with practice. While grimness underlay his spirit, it was lightsome, after a hard voyage, to boast before a girl. When she must go back to her household duties she kissed him hard and he cupped a breast, they two out of sight in the dim rain.
That night they left the drinking after supper hand in hand, earlier than most. A couple of her father’s tenants uttered a cheer, a couple of sailors who did not have wenches at their sides groaned good-naturedly. In his cubicle she slipped her dress over her head and fumbled at the lacing of his tunic. His lust made her lovely; she glowed in the shadows. He bore her down on the bed and, both heedless of anyone who might hear, he rutted her.
When she had her breath again, she said in his ear, “Now that was mightily done. It’s glad I’d be if all men were like you—”
“Soon I do more,” he bragged.
“—or King Niall. Is it that the sea makes you strong?” She giggled. “Sure and he was a bull from out of the waves last time, in spite of brooding about Ys.” She felt his frame go iron-hard. “Are you angered? I am not calling you the less, darling.”
Still he lay without motion, save for the quick rise and fall of his breast above the slugging heart. “Were you ever in Ys?” she tried. “I hear it was magical. They say the Gods raised it and used to walk its lanes on moonlit nights.”
He sat up and seized her. “What happen Ys?” he rasped.
“Ee-ai! You hurt me, let go!”
He unlocked his fingers. “I sorry. How Ys? Yuh know? Say.”
“Is something wrong?” Cellach called from the fireside talk of those still up.
“Not, not,” Maeloch shouted. To Áebell, low: “I beg, tell. I give gold, silver, fine things.”
She peered through the gloom at the staring whiteness of eyeballs and teeth. “I kn-know nothing. He forbade they say. But they got drunk and, and words slipped free—” Rallying her wits, she crouched amidst the tumbled coverings and whispered, “Why do you care?”
“Ys great,” he said hastily. “Rich. Make trade.”
“M-m, well—” She nodded. “But I am just a little outland girl. I don’t understand these man-things.” She smiled and brought herself against him. “I only understand men. Hold me close, darling. You are so strong.”
He obeyed; but no matter what she did, his flesh had no more will toward her. Finally she sighed, “Ah, you are worse tired from your travels than you knew, Maeloch, dear. Get a good night’s rest, and tomorrow we’ll make merry.” She kissed him, rose, pulled the gown over her, and left.
After a while the last folk went to bed. A banked fire barely touched the darkness. Maeloch lay listening to the horrors in his head. Once he thought he heard hoofbeats go by.
In the morning, which was overcast but free of rain, he told Cellach he and his crew had better be off. “Now why would you be wanting to do that this soon?” the hostelkeeper replied. “You’ve talked with none but us here. You’ve shown us nothing of your goods nor asked what we in these parts might wish to trade for them. Take your ease, man. We want to hear much more. It’s close-mouthed you’ve been, I must say.”
Maeloch felt too weary after his sleepless night to press the matter. He sat dully on a bench outside and rebuffed Usun’s anxious questions. Áebell was nowhere about. Had she sought another mate elsewhere, or was she simply staying from him till he could get over his failure? He cared naught. His wife and children, the first grandchild, those were encamped in him.
Áebell returned at midday. With her rode a troop of warriors. Their spearheads rose and fell to the onwardness of the horses, like wind-rippled grain. At their head was a tall man with golden hair and beard begun to turn frosty. A seven-colored cloak fluttered from his shoulders.
The household swarmed forth. The sailors drew together and advanced behind. Their weapons were in the hostel. “Lord Niall!” cried Cellach. “A thousand welcomes. What brings you to honor us again?”
The King’s smile was bleak. “Your daughter, as you can see,” he answered. “She rode through the night to tell me of men from Ys.”
Some women gasped and some men gaped. Cellach held steady. “I felt the breath of such a thought myself, lord, that they are Ysans,” he said. “But I was not sure. How could you be, Áebell mine?”
She tossed her head. “What else, the way he turned cold? And Ys was the enemy of Niall from before my birth.” She edged her mount toward the tall man.
Aye, thought Maeloch, Scotic women were free, and therefore keen and bold, as Roman women were not. As women of Ys were, in their very different way. He should have remembered.
Niall looked over heads, pierced him with a lightning-blue stare, and said, “You are the captain.”—in Ysan.
Maeloch stepped to the fore. The heaviness was gone from his limbs, the terrors from his heart. It was as if he stood outside his body and steered it. Thus had he been in combat or when close to shipwreck. “Aye,” he said, “and ye too ha’ lately fared from my city.”
“I have that.”
“What did ye there?”
Niall signed to his followers. They leaped off their horses and took battle stance. “Prepare yourself,” he said quietly. “Ys is no more. On the night of storm, Lir came in.”
At his back, Maeloch heard Usun croak like one being strangled, another man moan, a jagged animal noise from a third. “How wrought ye this?” he asked, well-nigh too low for anybody to hear.
Niall bit his lip. “Who are you to question me? Be glad I don’t cut you down out of hand.”
“Oh, ye’ll get
your chance. Come fight me, or forever bear the name of craven.”
Niall shook his head. “The King at Temir is under gess to fight only in war.” He nodded toward a giant in his band. “There is my champion, if you wish a duel.” That man grinned and hefted his sword.
“’Tis ye that hell awaits,” Maeloch stated.
“Hold your jaw!” Áebell shrilled furiously.
A chillier wrath congealed Niall’s features. “My task is unfinished until naught whatsoever remains of Ys, the city that murdered my son and my good men. Your insolence has doomed you likewise.”
“My lord!” Cellach thrust his mass in front of Maeloch. “These are my guests. On my land they have sanctuary. Heed the law.”
For an instant Niall seemed about to draw blade and hew at him. Then the King snapped a laugh. “As you will, for as long as you house them.”
“That will be no longer than they need to take ship, lord.” Cellach looked over his shoulder. “Be off with you,” he spat. “It’s lucky you are that there is no craft on hand for pursuing you.”
“Nor harbor for you at journey’s end,” Niall gibed.
How fierce must his hatred be, that he stooped to mockery of helpless men? Or was it something deeper and still more troubling? Maeloch was as yet beyond all feelings, like a sword or a hammer; he knew remotely that later he must weep, but now his throat spoke for him:
“Aye, well may the memory of Ys glimmer away, for the Veil of Brennilis did ever ward her; but ye ha’ gone it behind it yourself, and somehow this ill thing be your doing. Forgetfulness shall come over it also, and over everything else till folk unborn today wonder if Niall truly lived; but first we who do remember will bring ye to your death.”
He turned to his crew. “Fetch your things,” he ordered. “We can still catch the tide.”
Behind him Áebell made fending signs against his curse. Niall reached over and touched her. She calmed immediately and smiled at the man she loved.
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