He stopped on the sand at high water mark, near a shard of rampart and the survivor of those two towers which had been called the Brothers. Looking outward, he saw how ebb tide had bared acres of ruins. When last it did I was ransacking undefended houses, he thought in scorn of himself. By this dim uneasy light he discerned fountains, sculptures, Taranis Way running toward what had been the Forum. Across Lir Way, a particular heap had been the Temple of Belisama, and Dahut’s house had stood nearby. A skull lay at his feet. He wondered if it had been in the head of anyone he knew, even—He shuddered. It was a man’s. Hers would have the strong sharp delicacy of a brooch from the hand of an ollam craftsman in Ériu.
Unshod, he did not wish to go farther, through the fragments. He folded his arms, gazed at the white unrest-fulness of the breakers, and waited for that which had called him.
The song strengthened. It was in and of the wind and the waves, but more than they, from somewhere beyond. It yearned and it challenged, a harp and a knife, laughter and pain, endlessly alone. Someone sported in the surf, white as itself, like a seal but long and lithe of limb, high in the breast, slim in the waist, round in the hips, plunged and rose again, danced with the sea like a seal, and sang to him. Vengeance, it sang, I am vengeance, and you shall serve me for the love I bear you. By the power of that love, stronger than death, I lay gess on you, Niall, that you take no rest until the last of Ys lies drowned as I lay drowned. It is your honor price, King on Temir, that you owe her whom you betrayed; for never will her love let go of you.
Long and long he stood at the edge of the fallen city while the siren sang to him. He remembered how he had called Mongfind the witch from her grave, and knew now that once a man has let the Otherworld into his life, his feet are on a road that allows no turning back.
But he was Niall of the Nine Hostages. Fear and regret were unbecoming him. At the turn of the tide, she who sang fell silent and swam away out of his sight. He strode back to the camp, laid himself down, and dropped quickly into a sleep free of dreams.
—In the morning he ranked his followers before him. They saw the starkness and were duly quiet. “Hear me, my dears,” he said.
“A vision, a thought, and a knowledge came over me in the night. You will not be liking this, but it is the will of the Gods.
“Ys, that murdered our kinsmen, must do more than die. Overthrown, she could yet be victorious over us. For folk will be coming back to these parts and settling. If they saw what we see, they would recall what we have heard, the tales and the ballads, the memory of splendor; and in their minds we would be the murderers. Shall they found a new city and name it Ys? Shall they praise and dream of Old Ys till heaven cracks open? Or shall, rather, the city of treachery die forever?
“Already, I have told you, I want no word of it bound to my own fame. Today I tell you that nothing of it may abide.
“Our time here is short. We cannot do the whole work at once. But this is my command, that we leave the valley houses be—others will clean them out soon enough—and start the razing of yonder lighthouse which once guided mariners to Ys.”
—Dry-laid, it yielded more readily to strong men than might have been awaited from its stoutness. They cast the blocks over the cliff. When they set sail, half was gone. Niall thought of a raid in summer, during which the rest could be done away with. Of course, warriors would require booty. Well, much should remain around the hinterland, as well as in settlements on this whole coast.
He grinned. They might find a party of Gauls picking over the shards of Ys, and rob them. In the song of the siren had been promise as well as threat.
He sobered, and men who noticed slipped clear of his nearness. She had laid a word on him. Year by year, as he was able, he must obey. Untouched thus far on Cape Rach stood the necropolis. He must level it. First would be the tomb of Brennilis.
II
1
The sun was not yet down, but the single glazed window was grayed and dusk beginning to fill the room where Apuleius Vero had brought his guests. It was a lesser chamber of his house, well suited for private talk. Wall panels, painted with scenes from the Roman past, were now vague in vision. Clear as yet sheened the polished walnut of a table which bore writing materials, a pair of books, and modest refreshments. Otherwise the only furniture was the stools on which the three men sat.
The news had been brought, the shock and sorrow uttered, the poor little attempts at condolence made. It was time to speak of what might be done.
Apuleius leaned forward his slender form and regular features. “How many survivors?” he asked low.
Gratillonius remained hunched, staring at the hands clasped together in his lap. “I counted about fifty,” he said in the same dull voice as before.
The tribune of Aquilo drew a sharp breath and once more signed himself. “Only half a hundred from that whole city and … and those from outside whom you say had taken refuge? Christ be with us. Christ have mercy.”
“There may be two or three hundred more who stayed in the countryside, including the children. We’ve tried to get in touch with them.”
Corentinus’s fist knotted on his knee. Tears gleamed under the shaggy brows. “The children,” he croaked. “The innocents.”
“Most will starve if they don’t soon get help,” Gratillonius said. “Afterward the reavers will come.”
Apuleius forced business into his tone. “But I gather you have leaders for them while you are off seeking that help. Where have you been?”
“Thus far, only Audiarna. The reception we got there decided me to come straight to you.”
“What did they say?”
Gratillonius shrugged. Corentinus explained, harshly: “The tribune and the chorepiscopus both told us they had no space or food to spare. When I pressed them they finally cried that they could not, dared not take in a flock of pagans who were fleeing from the wrath of God. I saw it would be useless to argue. Also, they were doubtless right when they said our people would be in actual danger from the dwellers. Ys is—was near Audiarna. The horror of what has happened, the terror of more to come, possesses them in a way you should be free of here at your remove.”
Apuleius looked at Gratillonius and shook his head in pity. The centurion of the Second, the King of Ys had lacked strength to dispute with a couple of insignificant officials and must needs leave it to his clerical companion.
“We can take in your fifty at once, of course,” Apuleius told them. “A trading town like this has a certain amount of spare lodging in the slack season. It is not a wealthy town, though. We can find simple fare, clothing, and the like for that many, but only temporarily. The rest shall have to stay behind until something has been worked out with the provincial authorities. I will dispatch letters about that in the morning.”
“God will bless you,” Corentinus promised.
Gratillonius stirred and glanced up. “I knew we could count on you, old friend,” he said, with a slight stirring of life in his voice. “But as for the tribunes or even the governor—I’ve given thought to this, you understand. They never liked Ys, they endured it because they had to, and some of them hate me. Why should they bestir themselves for a band of alien fugitives?”
“Christ commands us to succor the poor,” Apuleius answered.
“Pardon me, but I’ve never seen that order very well followed. Oh, Bishop Martinus will certainty do what he can, and I suppose several others too, but—”
“I’ll remind them that people who become desperate become dangerous. Don’t fret too much.” With compassion: “It’ll take time, resettling them, but remember Max-imus’s veterans. Armorica continues underpopulated, terribly short of hands for both work and war. We’ll get your people homes.”
“Scattered among strangers? After they’ve lost everything they ever had or ever were? Better dead, I think.”
“Don’t say that,” Corentinus reproved. “God’s left the road open for them to win free of the demons they worshipped.”
Gratillon
ius stiffened. His gaze sought Apuleius and held fast. His speech was flat with weariness but firm: “Keep them together. Else the spirit will die in them and the flesh will follow it. You’ve been in Ys. You’ve seen what they can do, what they know. Think what you’ve gained from the veterans and, all right, those former outlaws who came to these parts. We’re going to need those hands you spoke of more than ever, now Ys is gone. It was the keystone of defense for Armorica. How many troops does Rome keep in this entire peninsula—two thousand? And no navy worth mentioning; the Ysan fleet was the mainstay of that. The barbarians will be coming back. Trade will be ripped apart. I offer you some good fighting men, and some more who can learn to be, and others who’re skilled workmen or sailors or scribes or—Man, can you afford to waste them?”
He sagged. Twilight deepened in the room. Finally Apuleius murmured, “You propose to resettle the Ysans, your former subjects, rural as well as urban, in this neighborhood?”
Gratillonius was barely audible: “I don’t know any better place. Do you?”
Corentinus took the word. “We’ve talked about it a little, we two, and I’ve given it thought of my own. I used to live hereabouts, you recall, and though that was years ago, the King’s brought me the news every time he paid a visit. There’s ample unfilled land. There’s iron ore to be gathered nearby, and unlimited timber, and a defensible site that fishers and merchantmen can use for their terminus.” Apuleius opened his mouth. Corentinus checked him with a lifted palm. “Oh, I know, you wonder how so many can be fed in the year or more it’ll take them to get established. Well, in part we’ll have to draw on Imperial resources. I’m sure Bishop Martinus can and will help arrange that; his influence isn’t small. The need won’t be great or lasting, anyway. For one thing, the Ysan hinterland grazes sheep, geese, some cattle and swine. Their herders would far rather drive them here and see most eaten up than keep them for the barbarians. Then too, Ys was a seafaring nation. Many a man will soon be fishing again, if only in a coracle he’s made for himself, or find work as a deckhand on a coastal trader.” He paused. “Besides, the former soldiers and former Bacaudae who owe their homes to Gratillonius—I think most of them will be glad to help.”
Apuleius gripped his chin, stared afar, sat long in thought. Outside, sounds of the town were dying away.
Finally the tribune smiled a bit and said, “Another advantage of this site is that I have some small influence and authority of my own. Permissions and the like must be arranged, you understand. That should be possible. The situation is not unprecedented. Emperors have let hard-pressed barbarian tribes settle in Roman territory; and Ys is—was—actually a foederate state. I have the power to admit you temporarily. Negotiating a permanent status for you will take time, since it must go through the Imperium itself. But the, alas, inevitable confusion and delay are to the good, for meanwhile you can root yourselves firmly and usefully in place. Why then should the state wish to expel you?
“Of course, first you require somewhere to live. While land may lie fallow, it is seldom unclaimed. Rome cannot let strangers squat anywhere they choose.”—unless they have the numbers and weapons to force it, he left unspoken.
“Well?” asked Corentinus tensely.
“I have property. To be precise, my family does, but God has called most of the Apuleii away and this decision can be mine.”
Gratillonius’s breath went sharp between his lips.
Apuleius nodded, as if to himself, and continued methodically. “You remember, my friend, that holding which borders on the banks of the Odita and the Stegir where they meet, a short walk hence. On the north and east it’s hemmed in by forest. Of late, cultivation has not gone so well. Three tenant families have farmed it for us, one also serving as caretakers of its manor house. They grow old, that couple, and should in charity be retired. As for the other two, one man has lately died without a son; I am seeing what can be done for his widow and daughters. The second man is hale and busy, but—I strongly suspect—would welcome different duties. God made him too lively for a serf. Can the Lord actually have been preparing us here for a new use of the land?”
“Hercules!” Gratillonius breathed. Realizing how inappropriate that was, he gulped hard and sat silent.
“Hold on,” Apuleius cautioned. “It’s not quite so simple. The law does not allow me to give away an estate as I might a coin. This grant of mine must employ some contorted technicalities, and at that will involve irregularities. We’ll need all the political force we can muster, and no doubt certain … considerations … to certain persons, if it is to be approved. However, I’m not afraid to have the actual work of settlement commence beforehand. That in itself will be an argument for us to use.”
“I knew I could count on you—” Abruptly Gratillonius wept, not with the racking sobs of a man but, in his exhaustion, almost the quietness of a woman.
Apuleius lifted a finger. “It will be hard work,” he said, “and there are conditions. First and foremost, they were right as far as they went in Audiarna. We cannot allow a nest of pagans in our midst. You must renounce those Gods, Gratillonius.”
The Briton blinked the tears off his lashes, tasted the salt on his mouth, and replied, “They were never mine.”
Corentinus said, like a commander talking of an enemy who has been routed at terrible cost, “I don’t think we’ll have much trouble about that, sir. How many among the survivors can wish to carry on the old rites? Surely too few to matter, except for their own salvation. Let most hear the Word, and soon they will come to Christ.”
“I pray so,” Apuleius answered solemnly. “Then God may be pleased to forgive one or two of my own sins.”
“Your donation will certainly bless you.”
“And my family?” Apuleius whispered.
“They too shall have many prayers said for them.”
Both men’s glances went to Gratillonius. He evaded them. Silences thickened.
“It would be unwise to compel,” Corentinus said at length.
The door opened. Light glowed. “Oh, pardon me, father,” said the girl who bore the lamp. “It’s growing so dark inside. I thought you might like to have this.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Apuleius to his daughter.
Verania entered timidly. It seemed she had taken the bringing upon herself, before it occurred to her mother to send a slave. Gratillonius looked at her and caught her look on him. The lamp wavered in her hand. She had barely seen him when he arrived, then the womenfolk and young Salomon were dismissed from the atrium.
How old was she now, he wondered vaguely—fourteen, fifteen? Since last he saw her, she had filled out, ripening toward womanhood, though as yet she was withy-slim, small-bosomed, barely up to his shoulder if he rose. Light brown hair was piled above large hazel eyes and a face that—it twisted in him—was very like the face of Una, his daughter by Bodilis. She had changed her plain Gallic shift for a saffron gown in Roman style.
She passed as near to him as might be in the course of setting the lamp on the table. “You are grieved, Uncle Gaius,” she murmured.
What, had she remembered his nickname from her childhood? Later Apuleius had made her and her brother be more formal with the distinguished visitor.
“I brought bad news,” he said around a tightness in his gullet. “You’ll hear.”
“All must hear,” Apuleius said. “First we should gather the household for prayer.”
“If you will excuse me.” Gratillonius climbed to his feet. “I need air. I’ll take a walk.”
Apuleius made as if to say something. Corentinus gestured negation at him. Gratillonius brushed past Verania.
Within the city wall, streets were shadowed and traffic scant. Gratillonius ignored what glances and hails he got, bound for the east gate. It stood open, unguarded. The times had been peaceful since Ys took the lead in defending Armorica. Watchposts down the valley sufficed. How much longer would that last?
Careless of the fact that he was unarmed, Gratilloni
us strode out the gate and onward. His legs worked mechanically, fast but with no sense of vigor. A shadowy part of him thought how strange it was that he could move like this, that he had been able to keep going at all—on the road, in council, at night alone.
The sun was on the horizon. Level light made western meadows and treetops golden, the rivers molten. Rooks winged homeward, distantly cawing, across chilly blue that eastward deepened and bore a first trembling star. Ahead loomed the long barricade of Mons Ferruginus, its heights still aglow but the wrinkles beneath purple with dusk.
He should turn around, raise his arms, and say his own evening prayer. He had not said any since the whelming of Ys. There had been no real chance to.
He did not halt but, blindly, sought upward. The rutted road gave way to a path that muffled foot-thuds. It wound steeply among wild shrubs and trees, occasional small orchards, cabins already huddling into themselves. Boughs above him were graven black. Ahead they were mingling with the night as it welled aloft.
He reached a high place and stopped. This was as far as he could go. He wanted in a dull fashion to trudge on, maybe forever, but he was too drained. It would be hard enough to stumble his way back down. Let him first rest a while. And say that prayer?
From here he looked widely west. A streak of red smoldered away. “Mithras, God of the sunset—” No, somehow he could not shape the words. Mithras, where were You when Ocean brought down Ys and her Queens, where were You when it tore Dahut from my hand?
He knew the question was empty. A true God, the true God was wholly beyond. Unless none existed, only the void. But to admit that would be to give up his hold on everything he had ever loved. But if the God was too exalted to hear him, what matter whether or not He lived outside of human dreams? A good officer listens to his men. Mithras, why have You forsaken me?
The Dog and the Wolf Page 4
