Already four of the clans were gone, destroyed entirely in the whelming: Demari, Adoni, Anati, Jezai. Each of the thirteen took its name from a month of the lunar calendar. Was it mere chance that those four were at the quarters of the year? God could thus be showing how the false Gods were fallen. The calendar that had set Their rites must give way and be forgotten before the calendar of Julius, like the pagan moon before the Sun of Christ.
“What have you to say to us, priest?” demanded Bomatin Kusuri in his blunt fashion.
Corentinus overlooked the incorrect title. He had business far more grave. “I wish less to speak at you than with you,” he answered. “My power is only to give counsel and, yea, in certain matters, warning. You set your course for yourselves. My prayer is that it be the right one.”
“The King should lead this meeting,” Amreth said.
“He meant to,” Corentinus explained, “but troublous tidings came suddenly upon him. We having already set the day, I felt it best to abide by it. Naught that is said will be binding on anyone.”
“’Tis well he’s absent anyhow,” blurted Evirion Baltisi.
Attention sought him in surprise. He glared back, a large and powerfully built young man, dark-haired, bullet-headed, snub-featured. No matter his lack of the aristocratic lineaments, he was a grandson of Hannon Baltisi, who had been Lir Captain and bitterly hostile toward Christ. Like the old man in his younger days, Evirion was a seafarer, boldly trading and sometimes slave-raiding from Mumu to the Germanic coasts, beyond the Imperial bounds. It was rumored that he had also had dealings, not always peaceful, in places claimed by but no longer under any real protection of Rome.
“What mean you?” asked Runa sharply.
“That far from heeding Grallon, we should erenow have slain him and left him to the ravens for a traitor. Who else called the wrath of the Gods down on Ys?”
A whisper sibilated around the room, half appalled, half enraged—at whom?
Julia sprang to her feet. “That’s not true!” she cried. Blood beat in her round young face. She struggled for breath. “My father, he upheld all of you. He saved more than anybody else could have.”
Evirion slitted his look on her. “In those last months when King and Queens were sundered by his denial of her holy rights to Dahut—where were you, Julia? With your mother.”
“Oh, but I—I—” The girl fell back onto her stool, bent head into hands, and wept. She was fifteen years old.
Evirion stood challenging the assembly with his glance. “Never did Grallon honor the Gods of Ys. His lips alone did, while he bowed down before his Mithras and made this agent of Christ his foremost counselor. It was Grallon who finally broke the Pact and so brought doom. Then he led you to the Romans and their Church, as a bellwether leads sheep to the slaughterer.”
“Why did you keep silent?” Hilketh inquired.
“None would have heeded, earlier. And certes we had necessity to bring survivors to safety and let them regain some strength of body and spirit. I did my share or more in that work. ’Tis time to exact justice and seek freedom.”
“Where ’ud you seek it?” gibed Tera the shepherdess.
“Will you sink your neck under the yoke, you who knew the Stag-Horned One?” Evirion retorted.
“That’s as may be. I’ve my brood to think of first. We’ll see what Gods do best by ’em.”
“The great Three are surely done with us,” Runa said slowly, “or we with Them. Nor can we afford feuds among ourselves. Go back to our former lands if you will, Evirion, and wait for the barbarians.”
The seaman scowled but kept still. Corentinus sensed a lessening of tension in the air. It had felt like the moments before a lightning storm breaks; now rain ran softly across the windowpanes. She was shrewd, that woman, and fearless, a leader born.
“You are founding a colony, a new community,” reminded the chorepiscopus in his most level tone. “Or may I say that we are, together? I have come over the years to feel myself one among you, a man of Ys. I grieve for Ys the beautiful even as you do. But we have our lives to live. We have children with us and children yet unborn. Tera has right, their welfare is our first earthly duty.
“Those who choose can in truth withdraw. Outlands are still pagan, wilderness is well-nigh unpeopled. But do you think you can thus preserve the ways of your fathers, or any memory of your city? Nay, in your waking hours you will grub for a bare living, while your sons grow up to be unlettered backwoodsmen and your daughters to be brood mares in huts they share with the pigs. Friends, in my time I’ve been sailor, vagabond, laborer, and hermit off in the woods. I know whereof I speak.”
He had their entire heed. Quickly he went on: “Here at the confluence is the ground for a city—not a sleepy provincial town like Aquilo but a city real and great. The location is excellent. ’Twas mere accident of history that settlement began downstream of it, when ships can reach it on a flowing tide. The hinterland is rich, timber, iron ore, fertile soil. The neighbors are solid Osismiic tribesfolk leavened by Maximus’s veterans, always admiring of Ys and ready to welcome everything you can bring to them. For above all you have yourselves. You bear the learning, the traditions, the loyalties; you are Ys. Keep well your heritage.”
“Never will her towers rise anew,” said old Ramas Tyri low.
“I fear you speak sooth.” Corentinus looked toward Bomatin Kusuri. “But new ships can venture forth. Salt and surge were ever in Ysan blood. Let them now run in Armoricans for aye.”
Again Runa took the word: “Ramas meant that whatever we build here, it cannot be like that which is lost.”
Corentinus shook his head. “Nay, my lady, it cannot. If you would work upon Armorica, you must let Armorica—Rome—work upon you.” He paused. “The city you build must be a city that avows Christ.”
An ugly expression passed across Evirion and a few others. The rest seemed resigned or, some of them, half glad. Runa stayed impassive as she nodded and answered, “That is clear. What will you have us do?”
“Why, listen to the good news,” Corentinus told them in a rush of happiness. “Open your hearts. He will dry your tears, heal your wounds, and welcome you into life eternal. In return He asks no more than your love.”
“Then He wants everything,” said a new voice.
Corentinus looked that way. A young man had spoken, shyly—slender, blond, blue-eyed, with thin straight features. The pastor recognized Cadoc Himilco, son of the learned landholder Taenus by a Gallic leman but raised like an heir. His father lay dying of a sickness in the lungs caught during the trek hither.
“I d-do not call this wrong,” Cadoc went on. “We served the old Gods as our forebears did … because they did … but what were the Three, really? Nobody ever knew. Can you tell us about Christ?”
“With my whole heart.” Corentinus refrained from pointing out how he had tried to, year after year, and ears were deaf until God had brought Ys into the abyss. The salvation of one soul was infinitely more important than any niggling resentment. There had been ample punishment.
There had been thousands drowned in their sins and error—that a few score be saved? He crossed himself as he veered from the forbidden question.
Forcing a smile: “Stand easy, brethren and sisters. Today you shall be free of sermons. Let us instead talk about the worldly matters around us and how to cope with them. Daily will I preach in my wonted spot for such as care to listen, and ever will I be ready to talk with anyone in private. Nor will I rant or scold. My Master awaits you, but His patience is without bounds.”
Julia, who had sat head bowed, staring at the hands clenched together in her lap, glanced up. He thought that through the parching tears he saw a flash of hope.
4
While the meeting used his home, Apuleius had taken his family and slaves out to the farmstead he owned, on the edge of the land he had granted the colony. Toward evening Corentinus found him there in a room alone with Maecius, chorepiscopus at Aquilo. “I’m sorry, I didn’t me
an to intrude,” Corentinus said. “Rovinda told me you were in here. I supposed she meant you were by yourself.”
Apuleius smiled in the gathering dusk. “I was only taking the opportunity for prayer and spiritual counsel, on this day when nothing else is happening to me. The pastor was kind enough to come.” His manner was unaffected, even cheerful; the growing devoutness of his later years left him as comfortable as before with his God. Sometimes Corentinus felt envy.
“How did discussion go?” Apuleius continued. “Unless you want to keep that confidential.”
Corentinus folded his lanky length onto a stool. “It went quite well, on the whole. We arrived at some practical plans. The flock should soon have a better notion of what to expect and what each member ought to do … or keep from doing.”
“And did you win any to the Faith?” asked Maecius. He was aged, bald and dim of sight; the years when he, like Bishop Martinus, had made efforts to evangelize the countryside were long behind him.
Corentinus shrugged. “It’ll take a while.”
“Well, you are the man for that holy work. Proceed, surely with the saints at your side and the blessing of the Lord upon you.”
“It’s more difficult than that, Father,” replied Corentinus, turning earnest. They said Maecius had always been too innocent; some said too simple.
Apuleius nodded. “M-hm. Language; how many of them know Latin? Folkways, customs, ideas of what is legal and moral. A tribe of foreigners, whom we can’t properly assimilate while this generation is alive. They’ll start marrying among our people, though. What then? Can we allow it?”
“If they confess Christ, of course we can.” Doubt wavered in Maecius’s voice.
“The means of that we must prepare, and soon,” Corentinus told them. “A pastor who can serve their special needs. A church, not just a building—yours in Aquilo will be too small—but the whole underlying organization. Proper instruction. Baptism. In Ys I heard that much is changing in the Church these days; but away off there among pagans, I could not very well follow or understand it. Can you enlighten me?”
Maecius sighed. “At best, I was never a gifted teacher. And all these disputes about doctrine and liturgy—My poor wits might as well be at Babel.”
“We need counsel and we need support.” Corentinus regarded Apuleius. “Have I your leave to go seek them?”
“Where?’ asked the tribune.
“Where else but to Bishop Martinus in Turonum?”
Apuleius nodded again. “The soldier of God.” After a moment: “Make haste. He can’t have much time left in this world. Who shall carry the light he has kindled?”
Darkness deepened. Rain stammered on the roof.
V
1
Titus Scribona Glabrio, civil governor of Lugdunensis Tertia, received Quintus Domitius Bacca, his procurator, in that room of the basilica of Caesarodunum Turonum which they generally employed for confidential meetings. Today not even an amanuensis was present.
“Ah, welcome. Come in, my dear fellow, and make yourself as comfortable as possible,” Glabrio greeted. “Beastly weather, eh?” Outside, wind blustered cold, herding clouds and quick, hard rainshowers before it. Occasionally windowpanes flickered with a moment’s sunlight, otherwise the saints and angels painted on the walls stared out of a gloom wherein their eyes seemed phosphorescent. “We’ll have something hot and spiced to drink after our business is done.”
Bacca folded his robe, which the walk here had rumpled, about his gaunt frame and took a stool opposite his superior’s. “I get the impression the business itself will be of that nature,” he said A smile cut creases under his swordblade of a nose.
Glabrio nodded so vigorously that jowls and double chin wobbled. “A pleasure too long deferred. You have guessed what it is?”
“Considering what intelligence you’ve had me gather for you, and how quietly—”
“I have now digested the material.”
Bacca glanced at Glabrio’s paunch and raised the eyebrow the governor could not see.
“I took my time,” Glarbrio went on. “You know how prudent I am. Albeit God’s vengeance has at last fallen on wicked Ys, the powers of evil may still have resources. I had to feel sure. But today we can begin planning in earnest. Our task is to complete God’s work for Him and bring Gratillonius, whom surely none less than Satan rescued from the destruction—bring him low. Do you agree?”
“Well, it’ll feel good,” said Bacca in his desiccated fashion. He need not add: After he resisted and circumvented us for years, raised his power and honor in Armorica above ours and Rome’s own, slew the Franks who were supposed to rid us of him and demoralized their survivors, met our charges before the praetorian perfect in Augusta Treverorum and not only got them dismissed but won elevation to tribune … indeed he has rankled in our flesh.
“It is right,” Glabrio insisted. “It is vital. It is holy. Let this village he is founding grow, and the same evils will flourish afresh. Insubordination. A corrupting example before the entire province. Paganism. Black sorcery.”
“Do you truly consider a few miserable fugitives such a threat?”
“Not in themselves, perhaps. But with Gratillonius as leader—No, we must make an end of his insolence.”
Bacca stroked his chin. “That presumably means terminating the Ysan colony, the basis of whatever strength he may gain.”
“I believe so. The people can then be redistributed.”
“Scattered, you mean.”
“That will be wisest, don’t you think? Put them into their proper stations in life, teach them humility, save their souls. A holy work, I tell you.”
Bacca frowned into the middle distance. “A difficult work, at least,” he murmured. “Gratillonius has gotten himself rather firmly ensconced. He and his followers do have temporary permission to settle. Quite legal; Apuleius, the tribune of Aquilo, arranged it behind our backs, with praetorian prefect Ardens. He’s also a senator, Apuleius, you know, and has the ear of other important men too. Application for permanent status is in train, and I doubt very much it can be blocked. My inquiries indicate Stilicho himself will be partial to the Ysans.”
“How can that be?”
“Oh, all right, they’re deluded, those men; Satan has whispered to them in their dreams; but the fact remains. Moreover, we’d better not forget a good many lowly people. Maximus’s veterans, who owe Gratillonius their homes. Former Bacaudae, who could take up their old trade again if provoked. Osismiic tribesmen, who remember pirates and bandits kept off their necks, trade revived. We’re going to have troubles enough without stirring up revolt … which could, among other things, cause the Imperium to question us.”
“I am no fool, thank you,” huffed Glabrio. “I realize we shall have to proceed carefully. But we do have instruments to hand. Taxation—”
“The most obvious, because the most pervasive. As well I know.”
“You should!”
“I do. My knowledge includes technique. A levy by itself may prove insufficient to destroy, or impossible to collect, or productive of the very resistance we wish to prevent. First we had better plan ways and means suited to the project. That includes making preparations for the next indiction, two years hence. We will want to have an influence on it.”
Bacca’s look speared the purple-veined face before him. “I anticipated this,” he continued. “When you sent for me today I guessed why, and took the liberty of bringing a man of mine along. He’s waiting in the anteroom. Shall I have him called?”
The governor flushed. “You take a good deal upon yourself, Procurator. Who is he?”
Bacca curbed impatience. “You remember Nagon Demari.”
Glabrio reddened further. “The Ysan renegade last year? I certainly do. That disaster with the Franks was his fault. I thought afterward he fled.”
“I deemed it discreet that he withdraw,” Bacca explained coolly. “He and his family have been living on my fundus. A few days ago, foreseeing this sum
mons of yours, I had him brought here and lodged in my town house.” He gave the other no chance to use a mouth that opened and shut and opened again. “Your indignation was quite natural. But actually it’s wrong to blame him for the scheme going awry. It was an excellent idea in itself … as you agreed at the time. No fallible mortal could have foreseen just how tough and ruthless Gratillonius would prove to be. Now, like it or not, Nagon is the single Ysan left for us to consult—to use; and he is eager. He knows those people, their ins and outs, as we never can. We need him for our principal advisor and later, I think, our agent. A wise man does not throw away his sword because a shield stopped it once; he keeps it for his next stroke. You are nothing if not a wise man, Governor.”
“Well, well—” Glabrio fumed for a while but in the end agreed. He struck a small gong and bade the slave who entered fetch the outsider.
Almost, Nagon stamped through the door. He halted, his stocky frame half hunched as if for a fight, and glowered before he made himself give a proper salutation.
“You have much to answer for,” said Glabrio in his sternest tone. “Be thankful to your kindly protector. He has persuaded me to grant you a second chance.”
“I do thank you, sir,” Nagon grated. His sandy hair stood abristle. Small eyes like glare ice never wavered in the flat countenance. “The procurator has informed me. Sir, I’m ready to do whatever is called for—anything at all—that’ll bring yon Grallon to hell.”
Glabrio bridged his fingers. Rings sparkled. “Really? You are quite vehement, considering what months you’ve had to cool off.”
Nagon knotted fists that were once a laborer’s. “I could wait till Judgment Day and never hate him the less.”
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