Roma Mater

by Poul Anderson

  Gratillonius heard how he, in a pagan ceremony where the images of devils were brought forth, had wedded nine women who were avowed witches. He heard how he had accepted and openly borne the emblems of a sea demon and a demon of the air. He had sent forth a spirit in the form of a bird to spy upon his enemies. He had ordered magic to raise a storm. He had betrodden an island that was from time immemorial the site of the blackest sorcery—

  Courtiers shivered and made signs against malevolence. Lips moved in whispered prayer. The squad that had taken Gratillonius kept martial stiffness, but sweat came forth; he saw it, he smelled it.

  At the end, Maximus leaned forward. “You have heard the charges,” he said. “You must realize their gravity, and the necessity we are under of finding the truth. Sorcery is a capital offense. The powers of darkness have reached into the very Church; and you are a defiant unbeliever, who bears upon himself the mark of it.”

  What mark? He had left the Key of the gate behind in Ys, as being too vital to risk anywhere else. He’d grown a beard there, but it was close-cropped like a Roman’s. He did wear his hair in Ysan male style, long, caught at the nape to fall down in a tail…. He clawed out of his bewilderment and thought Maximus must refer to the brand of Mithraic initiation on his brow, though it had faded close to invisibility and—and Mithraists were loyal Romans.

  “You may speak,” the Emperor said.

  Gratillonius squared his shoulders. “Sir, I’ve practiced no wizardry. Why, I wouldn’t know how. The Duke—the Augustus always knew what my religion is, and it doesn’t deal in magic. They believe differently in Ys, true. Well, given my job, how could I keep from showing respect to their Gods? I did—I did ask help from whatever powers they might have, but that was against barbarians who menaced Rome. As for that time on Sena, the island Sena, I wasn’t supposed to set foot on it, but my wife—a wife of mine was dying there—” His throat locked on him. His eyes blurred and stung.

  “You may be honest.” Maximus’s tone was steady; and did it hold a slight note of regret? “We had cause for confidence in you, and therefore entrusted you with your mission. But if nothing else, you may have been seduced by the Evil One. We must find out. God be praised, now that the Priscillianus matter nears an end, we have had a chance to hear this news of you. And we have given it prompt consideration as much for your sake—Gratillonius, who did serve valiantly on the Wall—as for Rome’s. We will pray that you be purged of sin, led to the Light, saved from perdition.” Abruptly the old military voice rang forth. “If you remain a soldier, obey your orders!”

  He issued instructions. The squad led Gratillonius away.

  4

  In the early morning he was brought from the cell where he had spent a sleepless night. On the way down the gloom of a corridor, he met a procession under heavy guard. At its front walked a gray-haired man, skeletal, eyes fixed luminous upon another world. Four men came after, and a middle-aged woman and a younger who held hands. All were in coarse and dirty garb. They moved stumblingly, because they had not only been half starved but severely tortured. They stank. Lanterns burned smoky in the dank air around them. Hoarsely, they tried to sing a hymn.

  “The heresiarch and those followers of his who’ve been condemned,” said one of Gratillonius’s guards to him. “They’re off to the chopping block. Have a care, fellow, or you’ll be next.”

  —Light was dim also in the interrogation chamber. Gratillonius could just identify scenes of the Christian hell painted on its plaster. How neatly the instruments and tools sat arranged. This could have been an artisan’s workshop. Nothing felt quite real, except the chill. Two men waited, the first skinny and wearing a robe, the second muscular and in a brief tunic, ready for action. They studied the prisoner impersonally. He heard through a buzzing in his head:

  “—by command of the Augustus. Cooperate, and this may be the only session we’ll need. Otherwise we will be forced to take strict measures. Do you understand? We’re coping with none less than Satan—”

  Surprised at his meekness (but resistance would have been of no avail, when he was so alone), Gratillonius undressed. His nudity made him feel twice helpless. The torturer secured him in a frame so that he stood spread-eagled and took a lead ball off a shelf. It dangled at the end of a thong. Meanwhile the questioner continued talking, in an amicable voice. “—your duty to help lay bare the work of Satan. We do not wish to harm you. Simply as a warning—”

  Snapped by an expert hand, the ball smote Gratillonius’s elbow. Agony went jagged up that arm. He strangled a scream. He would not scream.

  “—now tell me, in your own words—”

  Whenever he resisted or equivocated, not that he meant to play games but often he wasn’t sure how to respond, the blow landed, on joints, belly, the small of the back, until he was a single slab of pain; and worst was that the next attack might come from between his sprangled thighs. Weirdest was that, from time to time, the proceedings would stop, they would bring him water, the torturer would sponge the sweat off him while the questioner chatted about everyday things.

  Mithras, Who hates a liar, give me to cling to the truth! “—I did n-n-no such deed, ever. Others may have, I don’t know about that, I’m just a soldier, but it was for Rome, everything I did was for Rome.”

  “He might want a taste of the hook,” said the torturer thoughtfully.

  The questioner considered. “Once.”

  When the barbs went into his thigh and out again, Gratillonius knew what it was like to be raped.

  “But I cannot tell you more!”

  “You’ve said a good deal already, boy.”

  “All I could. All.” And never screamed, Gratillonius thought blurrily. Never screamed. That much pride is left me. But I don’t know if I can keep it after my arms and legs crack out of their sockets on yonder rack, or when he starts hitting me in my manhood.

  “Well,” said the questioner with a smile, “that will do for today. Please remember how much the state needs your cooperation, you, a soldier; and think what it means to your salvation.” The torturer fetched salves and bandages and set about dressing open wounds. “You haven’t suffered any permanent damage, you realize. I pray God you don’t, dear soul.” The questioner stroked the prisoner’s wet hair. “But that depends on you.”

  He called the guards to bring Gratillonius back to his cell.

  5

  After two days and nights, wherein nothing happened except diminishing soreness and horrible expectations, suddenly he was brought forth. The person in charge was unctuous though uncommunicative. Gratillonius would see the Emperor! First he must needs be bathed, groomed, properly attired….

  This time Maximus sat in a room small and plainly furnished, himself simply clad, behind a table littered with papers and wax writing tablets. Apart from two soldiers at the door and the two that led Gratillonius in, he was unattended. Gratillonius gave him a salute, noticing with faint annoyance how awkward it was in his condition. “Sit down,” the Emperor directed. Gratillonius lowered his weariness onto a stool.

  Maximus observed him closely before saying, “Well, Centurion, how are you today?”

  Something grinned within Gratillonius. Aloud he answered, “All right, thank you, sir.”

  “Good.” Maximus ruffled the beard over his craggy chin, stared into space, and proceeded: “You came through interrogation rather well. We’ve no reason to doubt you were innocent of any criminal intent. Your rescue of Bishop Arator argues in your favor, too. Not being of the Faith, you failed to see the wiles of Satan before you. Meditate on that! But your intentions were patriotic. I expected they’d prove to be. You understand we had to make certain.”

  Gratillonius spared himself a reply. It would have been too much effort, for no clear purpose.

  “Now.” Maximus’s gaze swung back to stab at him. “Let us hear what you have to relate about Ys.”

  Surprised, Gratillonius stammered, “The Augustus… has my dispatches—”

  “If th
ose sufficed, I needn’t have brought you here.” Maximus barked a laugh. “Since time is lacking, and you’re in no shape to take the initiative, I must. Listen well and answer clearly.”

  His questions were shrewd. At the end, he nodded and said, slow-toned: “Aside from your mistakes—and we pray you’ve learned your lesson—aside from those, you’ve done a creditable job. We’re minded to keep you at your post. But.” He raised a finger. “But we set restrictions on you. You will not further abet the practice of sorcery in Ys. Do you hear? You will not. Instead, you, as the prefect of Rome, will do everything in your power to suppress what is diabolical.”

  A smile quirked his lips. “I know that won’t be easy. You’re set among pagans, and they seem to be especially obstinate. I’m not sure any Christian could handle them at all, and certainly I’ve no Christian officer available with anything like your capabilities. He sighed. “I must use whatever God sees fit to send me.”

  He grew stern: “We shall not let witches live. Once the last of this Priscillianist obscenity is behind us—we’ll be sending agents to Hispania to root it out, down to bedrock—once that’s done and the West is secure, look for us to enter Ys and inquire into your stewardship. Therefore be zealous. To drive the lesson home, you’ll be led from here to receive five strong lashes, one for each wound that Our Lord suffered upon the Cross. No more, and with an unweighted whip. We are disposed to be merciful.”

  Gratillonius mustered strength to say, “I thank the Augustus.”

  “Good,” replied Maximus. “Thereafter you may return to your quarters and recuperate. Use the time well. Think about your errors, seek counsel, pray for the grace of the Holy Spirit. Then, whenever you are fit to travel, you may do so.”

  Dull though Gratillonius’s mind was, a flickering went through it. He dared not wonder if he was being wise before he said, “Augustus,”—how weakly his voice resounded in his skull—“you tell me to get advice… from learned men. Well, may I search for it elsewhere than here?”

  “What? Where else?” Maximus scowled. “No, do not linger in Caesarodunum Turonum. They’re devout there, but you might become confused about certain things.”

  “I meant farther south, sir. To Lugdunum, Burdigala, places where … many sages live.”

  “Are you quite right in your head? You’re no student, to sit at the feet of philosophers.”

  “The Augustus knows… we need a new Christian minister in Ys. That calls for searching. Not just anyone will do.”

  Maximus fell into thought. “His appointment is not yours to make,” he said at length, “but the Church will take your recommendation into account, I suppose. You may prove mistaken. Still, the idea is to your credit.” Again he paused. “And as for your personal request—well, why not? It should do your soul good to see more of the Empire, of Christendom, than this Northern fringe. And clergymen who were not involved in the affair here, they may appeal better to your heart.” Decision came. “You may travel freely, provided you stay within Gallia, conduct yourself properly, and take no longer than, oh, six months until you return to duty. My secretary will prepare a written authorization.”

  Wistfulness brushed him. “After all,” he said, “we were soldiers together, you and I, soldiers on the Wall. Go with God.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gratillonius made himself utter.

  Maximus’s glance went back to the documents before him. “Dismissed.”

  Gratillonius’s guards led him off to the whipping post.

  6

  Four-and-twenty legionaries, fully encountered, marched out of the rain into the common room of the hostel. They shooed the help away and came to attention, ranked, before the couch where Gratillonius lay on his side to spare his back. Lamplight made their metal gleam against the shadows that had stolen in with eventide. As one, they saluted. “Hail, Centurion!” rolled forth.

  He sat up. The blanket fell off him. “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “By your leave, sir,” Adminius replied, “we’re ’ere for yer judgment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The deputy must wrench the words out: “We ’eard wot ’appened, and ’ow it was our stupid fault. Word’s got around, you see. Sir, w-w-we wants ter make it good, if we can. Only tell us wot ter do.”

  Budic’s lip quivered. Uncontrollable tears ran down his cheeks. “That I should have betrayed my centurion!” he nearly screamed.

  “Quiet, you,” Adminius snapped. “Bear yerself like a soldier. Sir, we await yer orders. If you can’t tell nobody ter flog us, we’ll do it ter each other. Or anything you want.”

  “We haven’t yet found out who hurt you,” said Cynan starkly, “but when we do, they’re dead men.”

  Shocked, Gratillonius got to his feet. “Are you a Roman?” he exclaimed. “I’ll have none of that. They did their duty, under orders, as Rome expects you will. If anything rates punishment, that notion of yours does. Kill it.”

  A part of him noticed that he hadn’t gone dizzy this time, rising. Anger was a strong tonic. But he was recovering pretty fast, too. That knowledge went through him in a warm wave. He looked upon his men in their misery, and suddenly had to blink back tears of his own.

  “Boys,” he said with much carefulness, “you’re not to blame. I never instructed you to keep silence, because I never expected trouble myself. Who would have? And let me say, this show of loyalty damn near makes me glad of what happened. It hasn’t done me any real damage anyway, aside maybe from a few extra scars. Give me three or four days more, and I’ll be ready for the road.”

  “To Ys, sir?” Adminius blurted.

  Gratillonius shook his head. “Not at once.”

  “Well, wherever the centurion goes, all ’e’ll need is ter whistle us up. Eh, lads?”

  The squadron rumbled agreement.

  “I’m not likely to require much of a troop in the South, where I’m bound,” Gratillonius said, “and as for Ys—Shut in here, I’ve had time to think. Some of you are likely homesick, after all your while in foreign parts. I can probably dispense with a Roman cadre, the way things are now set up in Armorica. Before leaving Treverorum, I can try to arrange reassignments for you, to your proper units in Britannia.”

  “Wot, sir? No!”—“Not me.”—“Please, I want to stay.”—“We’re your men, sir.”

  “You’re Rome’s men,” Gratillonius reminded them sharply. Behind his mask of an officer, he wondered. Barbarian warriors gave allegiance not to any state but to their chieftains. Was the Empire breeding its own barbarians? He thrust the chilling question aside. He could not penalize love.

  Also, he could not be entirely sure that there would be no further use in Ys for these roadpounders of his.

  “Well, think it over, and quickly,” he said. “I told you, I’m starting off soon, and whoever comes with me will be gone a long time.” He drew breath. “Thank you for your faithfulness. Dismissed.”

  “’Bout face!” Adminius barked. “Off ter barracks. I’ll follow shortly. Want a private word with the centurion first.”

  When the rest had tramped out the door, Gratillonius reseated himself and looked up at the thin face. He saw brashness abashed. “Well, deputy, what do you want?” he asked.

  “Um, sir, I don’t mean ter get above myself, but—could I speak freely, like? Man ter man.”

  Warmth rose afresh in Gratillonius. He smiled. “Go right ahead. If you overstep, I’ll simply tell you.”

  “Well, um—” Adminius wrung his hands and stared downward. “Well, sir,” he said in a rush, “the centurion is a man, very much a man, but ’e’s been through a ’ard time, after driving ’imself so ’ard, and now means ter begin again, sooner than wot a medic might call wise. It’s not for me ter tell yer ’ow to be’ave. But we in the troop do worry about yer. You’re getting your strength back, seems. But where’s any pleasure? A man can’t go on forever with no fun, no little rewards ter ’imself. Not unless ’e’s a flinking saint, ’e can’t. Could I, or anybody, ’elp th
e centurion to a bit of re-cre-ation? I’d be that glad, I would.”

  “You’re kind,” Gratillonius said, “but the food and drink are tolerable in this place, and—I am a marked man, who’d better watch his step. Enough.”

  “No, not enough! Listen, sir. I know it wouldn’t do ter bring a woman in ’ere, or anything like that. But if you go out, would a spy follow? I don’t think so.”

  Gratillonius chuckled. “I haven’t made your acquaintance with the sort of house you have in mind.”

  “No, sir, you’re a very serious-minded man. But listen, if you would like a bit of sport, let me recommend the Lion’s Den inn at the end of Janus Way. Can’t miss it. It’s safe, draws a nice class of customer, and the drinks and the games are honest, the girls are clean, and right now they’ve got the damnedest band of musicians you ever ’eard. That’s if you want, of course. I’ve said my piece. If the centurion ’as nothing else for me, goodnight, sir, and do be good to yerself.” Adminius saluted and bolted.

  Gratillonius laughed. He hadn’t done that since his arrest. It was a grand feeling. What a dear bunch of mother hens he led!

  At that, he thought, the deputy had a point. Before setting off on what was, after all, business of the most serious, he’d be well advised to refresh his spirit, get out of this dull dwelling, to where winds could blow the lingering horrors from his head. A vintner who’d been hospitable, and his pretty daughter—

  The girl was doubtless chaste—

  Gratillonius felt the stirring in his loins. And that had not happened either, following his imprisonment, until now. Fear about it had begun to nag him….

  By Hercules, but he’d been long deprived! And he’d spend additional months before coming back to his wives. Into his wives. The visions flamed up. Oh, he’d been told that some or other spell made it impossible for a King of Ys to possess any but the Gallicenae. That was in Ys, though, hundreds of leagues away at the far, lonely end of Armorica, Ys Whose gods he had in his heart forsworn and Who were fading away into myth. What power had They left Them? As he recalled the comfort that lay in a woman’s arms and breasts, the forgetfulness of self that lay between her legs, his rod lifted fully. When he regained his feet, it stayed firm.