Although it was an offside room in the basilica at Turonum, for confidential conferences, the space where Gratillonius stood seemed chosen to dwarf him. Quite likely that was true. It would ordinarily have held ten or twenty men. Instead, he was alone—how alone—before two. The amanuensis who sat at a table and recorded words spoken did not count. He was a slave, less real than the images on shadowy walls. Those were recent, in fresh plaster covering whatever paganisms had formerly been depicted. The artist had lacked training. Yet the angular, elongated shapes staring out of their big eyes, Christ with His angels and stunts, somehow radiated power; they judged and condemned.
Curtly summoned to report, the King of Ys stood before the governor and procurator of Lugdunensis Tertia. They sat in chairs large and ornate enough to be thrones, their togas warm around them, garments whose antiquatedness made him feel the weight of Imperial centuries. He had now been long on his feet. Entering out of mild weather, he had found his tunic and trousers inadequate against the chill here; it was gnawing inward as his knees wearied.
“You remain obdurate?” asked the governor. Titus Scribona Glabrio was a fat man, but underneath jowls and paunch he carried hardness to match that of his gaunt associate. “In light of the Augustus’s decree, handed you to read for yourself, that worship of false gods is banned. Their temples and revenues confiscated for the use of the stated—you refuse your duty to promote the Faith or even to embrace it?”
Gratillonius choked back a sigh. “With due respect, sir,” he answered, “we have discussed this at length today. I repeat, Ys is a sovereign nation. Its law requires that the King preside over the old rites. Your church has an able minister there; he and his congregation have my protection; more I cannot do, and remain King.”
“You can be recalled, prefect, and as of now.”
“Sir, I know. You can arrest me. But I ask you again, what then? Ys will be outraged. It will withdraw from the cooperation that I make bold to say has been priceless to Rome. As for the next King, Ys will do what it’s done in the past, when it lost one in some irregular way. It’ll find a new man to guard the Wood: purchased slave, volunteer tough, outlaw seeking refuge, makes no difference. What does matter is that he’ll be the creature of the magnates, because he’ll be ignorant and without cause for loyalty to Rome. Whether you let Ys pull back into isolation or you come and lay it waste, you’ll have lost the bulwark of Armorica.”
Quintus Domitius Bacca, procurator, sent his words gliding serpentine: “How conscientious have you proven, through, Gratillonius? You encourage trade with the barbarians of Hivernia. I have thrice written to you, explaining how the influx of gold is upsetting the Imperial order, inducing people to hold the Emperor’s currency in contempt, bypass normal commercial channels, evade taxes, flout regulations, and seek with increasing frequency to flee those stations in life to which God has called them. But you will not cut it off.”
“Sir, you have my dispatches,” Gratillonius replied. “I’ve done what I could about smuggling, but I still think the first job of our sea patrols is protection against piracy and aid to mariners in distress. It is not to stop merchant vessels for random searches. Meanwhile, traveling around, I’ve seen how by and large the people—all the Armorican tribes—how much better off they’re coming to be year by year, safer, healthier, decently fed and housed—”
“Silence!” interrupted Glabrio. “We know of your activities throughout the western half of the peninsula, far in excess of any mandate ever given you. What ambitions do you nourish for yourself?”
Gratillonius stiffened. Anger ignited in him, to burn away fatigue. Nonetheless he chose his phrases with care. “Sir, I’ve explained that, over and over, not just today but through my letters and visits to your predecessor. I can’t understand why you insist on seeing me. Well, I did know what you’d ask and came prepared to answer.” Apuleius Vero had warned him four years ago, and repeatedly afterward; he had inquired on his own, and pondered what his discoveries meant. “I believe I did that the first hour today. Why have you been dragging me through it again—I’ve lost count of how many times, how many different ways—with never a chance to rest or a share in the refreshments brought you? Do you hope to wear me down? Sir, you’re wasting your time. I was interrogated under torture once, and that was also a waste of time, for the selfsame reason. There simply is nothing more to tell.”
Glabrio flushed. “Are you being insolent?”
“No, sir. I am being truthful, as a soldier should. I am still a centurion of the Second.”
“A-a-ah,” murmured Bacca. The least smile played over his lips. “Shrewdly put. You are not altogether the blunt veteran you act. But we knew that already, didn’t we?”
Within himself, Gratillonius eased slightly. They were accepting his reminder, these two, that their authority was limited to civil affairs. His position in Ys had always been anomalous, ambiguous, especially after the fall of Maximus who appointed him. It embraced both military and diplomatic functions. Breaking him would require—to a properly cautious official mind—the concurrence of the Duke at least, and quite possibly of higher-ranking men, perhaps Stilicho. Would those personages really think it worth a cost that might prove enormous?
“There is a certain justice in your complaint, too,” Bacca went on. “We may have been thoughtless. Governor, shall we dismiss this man for the nonce? I do have other matters to take up with you in private.”
Glabrio put on an appearance of considering before he said: “Very well. Gratillonius, you may go. Hold yourself in readiness for further interviewing tomorrow, should I decide that that is necessary. Farewell.”
Gratillonius saluted. “Thank you, sir. Farewell.” He wheeled and marched out, aware that he had won his case—for the present, at any rate—and could soon start home. He was too tired to rejoice.
When the door had closed behind him, Glabrio turned to Bacca and demanded, “Well, what is this you want to discuss?”
“It requires privacy, I said,” replied the procurator, and sent the amanuensis off.
Thereupon he leaned his sharp features close to his superior’s and continued: “That fellow did speak truth. I’ve been investigating virtually from the day you and I took office, and I know. The only reason to call him here was to take his personal measure. It’s formidable.”
“I agree.” Glabrio frowned. “I do not agree that’s good.”
“Nor do I. What could happen eventually to our careers, or our own selves, if Ys remains independent, with its influence growing for every year that passes? Now that’s been largely the work of Gratillonius. I do believe he has no desire to become another Maximus. He has merely made Ys—alien, pagan Ys—indispensable to the security and well-being of this flank of the Empire. If Rome destroys him, she undercuts the whole bastion he has built for her. And yet the activities and the very existence of Ys subvert the Imperium.” Bacca laughed. “Forgive mixed metaphors, but his is a Gordian knot indeed.”
“Alexander cut the first Gordian knot across.”
“Do you think of having Gratillonius done away with? I’d wager many solidi that any such attempt would fail. His escort, the old Roman legionaries and the young Ysan marines, they keep a close eye on their King. Win or lose, an effort to eliminate him would be recognized for what it was. In fact, I’m afraid that even his accidental death hereabouts would be assumed a murder commissioned by us. No, my friend, we’d better take special care to see that Gratillonius returns intact.”
Glabrio shifted his broad bottom on the chair. “I know you,” he growled. “You have something in mind. Don’t shilly-shally the way you like to. I’m hungry.”
“Well, then,” Bacca said, rather smugly, “in the course of my duties I have agents keeping track of what happens, and I follow up the more interesting clues myself. Lately there has arrived a malcontent from Ys who was quite high in its affairs until Gratillonius got him removed. We’ve had a couple of talks, he and I. Today I ordered that he come to the basilica and wait for our summons. Shall I call a slave to fetch him?”
—Bitterly and fearlessly, Nagon Demari confronted the Romans and told them: “Of course I want that brotherfucker dead. Of course I’ve thought about how to do it.”
“Remember,” said Glabrio, “we mustn’t alienate Ys. We must rather bring the city to obedience.”
Nagon nodded. “Right.” His Latin was atrocious but understandable and improving daily. “Bring it to Christ. Right. I’m taking Christian instruction, sir. But if you don’t want to go in and outright conquer Ys—and that would leave a ruin, with my poor benighted longshoremen killed fighting against you—why, you’ll have to send your own man to chop Grallon down. Once he’s King, he can work with you to change things gradually.”
Glabrio stroked his clean-shaven double chin. “We’ll have to be crafty about it,” he said, “though we can secretly direct his actions. It helps that Gratillonius himself has much strengthened the Kingship.”
“The trouble is,” Nagon warned, “you get the Kingship by killing Grallon in the Wood, and he’s a troll of a fighter. How long’s it been since anybody dared challenge him? A dozen years? In spite of the fact he broke the law to spare that man. He wouldn’t spare the next; and meanwhile he keeps in practice. Word gets around.”
“Furthermore,” Bacca said, chiefly to Glabrio, “some adventurer who did succeed in overcoming Gratillonius would not necessarily be the man we want in Ys. What foreknowledge of him would we have, what hold on him? What rewards could we promise for his cooperation, greater than he might find there for himself?”
“Also,” the governor fretted, “if we sent the right man, how do we know he’d win?”
“A succession of men,” Bacca said. “I’ve looked into the law of Ys. It’s not unlike the ancient rule at Lake Nemi in Italy. Our guest there has been most helpful in explaining. The King is required to meet every challenger, though just one per day. If he’s sick or badly hurt, the engagement is postponed till he’s well. Now if a contestant appears every day, without surcease, hardy and battle-trained men who have no fear of death—day after day after day, while his lesser wounds and his weariness accumulate—hell be done.”
Glabrio grunted. “A pretty notion. Tell me where we’ll find this string of undiscourageable warriors.”
“I can!” Nagon cried. “I know!”
“Indeed? Well, before you name them, think. People in Ys are not stupid. Present company excepted, they seem on the whole rather attached to King Gratillonius. An influx of trained fighters such as you propose—no, it would much too obviously be at Roman instigation. It would have the same effect as killing him in this city. Or worse, because the victor, our man, would face a constitutional crisis like that which Brutus did after he met Caesar on the ides of March. The consequences are unforeseeable.”
“The maneuver need not be at all obvious,” Bacca answered calmly. “Nagon has had a brilliant idea.”
Standing before them, the Ysan raised a finger. Vengefulness made ice floes of his eyes. “You may lose a few to start with,” he admitted. “But before long you will get the kind of victor that we—you—that Rome can use, and safely, too, everything looking perfectly natural. Listen. Only listen a minute.”
—At the hostel, Gratillonius went to its stable. There he saddled Favonius, after which he rode the stallion full speed to the Greater Monastery. He wanted to call on Martinus. Doubtless he’d have to wait till the bishop finished whatever devotions were going on, but then, for a while, he could enjoy the company of an honest man.
“Ya Am-Ishtar, ya Baalim, ga’a vi khuwa—”
The aurochs bull lifted his head. Sunlight gleamed off his horns and ran hotly down the great shoulders. Secure under his ward, cows and calves went on cropping the grass in the glade.
“Aus-t ur-t-Mut-Resi, am ‘m user-t—”
The young summer filled the forest with greeness and fragrance. Bees buzzed, touching noonday silence no more than did the whisper out of shadows. The bull blinked, drooped his neck, settled down to rest.
“Belisama, Mother of Dreams, bring sleep unto him, send Your blind son to darken his mind and Your daughter whose feet are the feet of a cat to lead forth his spirit—”
The bull’s head sank. He slept.
Behind the growth of saplings that screened her, Dahut lowered the hand that had pointed at him as she cast the spell. “I did it,” she breathed, half unbelieving. “The Power flowed into me, through me, and—and for that space I was not myself, or I was beyond myself.”
Forsquilis nodded. “You have the Gift in full measure, as far as we have tried you,” she answered, equally low-voiced. “I failed to throw the net of slumber the first time I sought to after learning how, and likewise the second time. But you—”
She stopped, because the maiden had darted off, around the small trees, between a pair of giants, out into the glade and sunlight. There, gleefully, crowing laughter, Dahut sprang on the back of the bull, gripped his horns, rocked to and fro as if riding him. Her hair flowed wild over the woods-runner kirtle that, with breeks and sandals, clothed her. For a short space the cows regarded her drowsily, then one took alarm and lumbered in her direction. She jumped from her seat and scampered back under the forest roof. The cow returned to her calf.
Forsquilis seized Dahut by the shoulders. Anger made the Queen’s face more pale than before and deepened the fine lines that had of late appeared around eyes and mouth. “Are you mad?” she gasped. “You knew not how deeply he sleeps, nor how long he will. He could have been roused, and that would have been the end of you, little fool, tossed, gored, stamped flat.”
“But he wasn’t,” Dahut exulted. “I never feared he would be. The Gods wouldn’t let him.”
Forsquilis’s fury calmed down to grimness. “Are you truly that vainglorious? Beware. Erenow They have found cause to disown mortals They once loved, and bring those persons to doom.” She paused. “My fault, mayhap, my mistake. I should have made your trial of this art something less, like putting a sparrow or a vole to rest. But I let you persuade me—”
“Because I am born to the Power, and you know it!”
“Come,” Forsquilis said. “Best we start back, if we’d reach the city ere sundown.” They had traveled a number of leagues east, beyond the boundary stones, well into Osismiic territory. There were woods in the hinterland of Ys, near the Nymphaeum, but those held too much mystery, too many Presences, for an apprentice witch to risk disturbing.
Side by side, Queen and vestal walked toward the halting place of their escort. Brush was sparse beneath the trees, kept down by grazers such as they had found. Last year’s leaves rustled underfoot. Sometimes a bird winged across sun-speckled shade, bound to or from its young in their nest.
“You must learn to be more careful, dear,” Forsquilis sighed after a while. “Aye, and more humble. Set beside you, a lynx is cautious and meek.”
Dahut flushed. “Not when caged, ardent to be free.” She tossed her bright head. “Do you know this is the farthest from home I’ve have ever been, this wretched day-trip? Why would father not take me along to Turonum?”
“Blame him not. He would gladly have done so, but we Nine together told him he must not yield to your wheedling. You’d have been too long agone from your Temple duties. He has shown you Audiarna more than once.”
“That dreary pisspot of a town? Nay, not a town; a walled village, naught Roman about it save a few soldiers, and they natives.”
“You overstate things. You often do.”
“Outside, a whole world waiting! Ah, it shall be otherwise when the new Age begins, I vow.”
“Bide your time,” Forsquilis counselled. “Master yourself. Today you bestrode an aurochs. When will you ride your own heart on roads wisely chosen? ’Tis apt to run away with you.”
“Nay, ’tis I who choose to ride full speed—Hush!” Dahut snatched at Forsquilis’s arm and pulled her to a halt. “Look.”
Ahead of them was another opening in the forest, where a spring bubbled forth. Here, too, new growth around the edges hid the pair from sight. Horses cropped, spancelled. Half a dozen men sat or sprawled idle. Metal shone upon them. They were legionaries of Gratillonius’s, guards of the royal two on this excursion. Reluctantly, they had obeyed the Queen’s order to wait while she led the vestal onward afoot.
Mischief sparkled in Dahut’s glance. “Listen,” she hissed, “what a fine trick ’twould be to spell them to sleep. Then we could dust them with ants from yonder hill.”
“Nay!” exclaimed Forsquilis, shocked. She made the girl look straight at her. “Worse than an unpleasant prank on those who deserve well of us. A base use of the Power, a mockery of the Gods Who granted it. Oh, Dahut, remember you are mortal.”
The princess shrugged, smiled wryly, and proceeded ahead. As she came into view of the soldiers, the smile turned dazzling, and she answered their greetings with a flurry of blown kisses.
Budic trod near. His fair skin reddened while he asked awkwardly, “Did all go as you wished, whatever you came here to do, my lady?”
“Wondrous well,” she caroled. “Now, let’s be off. Let’s get into a road and put spurs to our beasts.”
He went on one knee and folded his hands, to provide her a step up into the saddle. It was as if the weight he raised were holy.
Theuderich the Frank held broad acres some miles out of Condate Redonum. He farmed them not as a curial but as he pleased; the Romans had long since decided it was prudent to wink at their own law rather than try to enforce it upon laeti of this race. After a fire consumed his hall, he rebuilt it on a grand scale, for he had waxed wealthy.
Thus he was at first unwilling to give more hospitality to a single traveler than his honor demanded—a place at the lower end of his board and a pallet on the floor for the night. If not a beggar, the man was plainly clad and indifferently mounted. If not a weakling, being short but broad, he was armed with only a Roman infantry sword and looked no more accustomed to its use than he was to riding. When he asked for a private talk with the master, Theuderich guffawed. Thereupon the fellow drew forth a letter of accreditation. Theuderich recognized the seal and did not trouble calling his slave accountant to read him the text. “Come,” he said, and ordered ale brought.
He and the stranger, who named himself Nagon Demari, left the smoky dimness of the hall and walked through a drizzle of rain to a lesser building nearby. “The women’s bower,” Theuderich said. “It will do for us.” Large windows covered with oiled cloth made the single room within bright enough for his wife, his lemans, and their serving maids to work at the loom it held or sit on the stools sewing, spinning, chatting. He shooed out such as were present, closed the door behind him, and turned to his guest.
For a short span, the men studied each other. In his mid-thirties, Theuderich was hulkingly powerful. A yellow beard spilled down from a ruddy face wherein the eyes glittered small by the broken nose. His garments were of excellent stuff but his smell was rank. “You’re neither German nor Gaul,” he grunted. “What, then?”
“A man of Ys, now in the service of Rome like yourself,” Nagon answered.
“Ys?” Theuderich’s countenance purpled. He lifted his ale horn as if to strike with it.
Nagon barked a laugh. “Easy,” he said. “I’ve no more love for the King of Ys than you do. That’s why I’ve sought you out.”
“Urn. Well, sit down and tell me. Speak slow. Your Latin’s hard to follow.”
Nagon forbore to remark on his host’s accent. They hunched on opposed stools. Nagon tasted his ale. It was surprisingly good; but so quite often were Frankish fabrics, craftworks, jewelry. “I can understand your grudge against Ys,” he began. “Were you not among those who were set on by what turned out to be agents of its King—eleven years ago, I’ve heard?”
“Yah,” Theuderich snarled. “My father Merowech vowed revenge. On his deathbed, he made my brothers and me swear to pursue it. Not that we needed haranguing. We’ve suffered more than that one hour of dishonor. Those tame Bacaudae are everywhere about these days, in the woods, the hills, the countryside. They turn our serfs against us. Again and again they’ve disrupted our preparations for sacrifice, till Wotan no longer gets men on His high days, but only horses. When we’ve gathered war bands to scour them out, they’ve faded away, to come back and shoot us full of arrows from cover, or cut the throats of our sentries after dark. And Rome will give us no help. None!”
“Rome has her hands full,” Nagon said. “She finds the King of Ys… troublesome.” He leaned forward. “Hark, my lord.” His life had taught him when and how to flatter. “I have a plan to broach. I came first to you because, while you may not be the supreme leader of the Franks—since this colony of your free-souled folk scarcely has any such man—and you are not even the eldest living son of a great father: still, everybody tells me you are among the strongest and most respected in Armorica. They say also that you are wise, discreet, well able to keep silence until the time be ripe for action.”
Theuderich puffed himself out. “Go on.”
“Let me ask you a question. Considering what valiant men the Franks are, and what wrongs the Kins of Ys has done them, and what wealth and glory are to be had yonder, why has none of you ever gone to challenge him?”
Theuderich glowered. His hand dropped to his dagger. “Dare you think we’re afraid?”
“Oh, no, never. Surely you have a sound reason.”
“Um. Well.” Theuderich drank deep, belched, and scratched in his beard. “Well, the fact is that Grallon hound is a legionary of the old kind, what you can hardly get anywhere any more. I’ve looked into this myself, I have. Men have told me how he’s minced his opponents like garlic cloves, and always wins over his sparring partners. What gain in letting him chew up others? Whoever did take him would likely be too badly hurt to get much use out of being King of Ys. Besides, challengers would pester him to his own death.”
“This could be changed,” Nagon said softly.
Theuderich sat upright. “How?”
“What if Grallon had to fight a man every day? The first few might die—gloriously—but soon he would be tired and battered, easy prey.”
Theuderich slumped. “That’s been thought of. Can’t be done. Ys would never let so many armed strangers in at once; and she’s got the force to keep them out. Anyhow, we can’t make war on Ys. It’s a Roman ally, and we’re Roman subjects. Stilicho would be quick to punish us. He may not be too fond of Ys either, but he doesn’t stand for that sort of disorder, as—we’ve learned.”
“It could be arranged,” Nagon purred. “Suppose the Ysan troops were elsewhere. Suppose then the Franks marched in and established themselves. It would not be an act of war, for how could the Ysans put up a fight? It would be without Roman permission, but also without official Roman knowledge. By the time these doings could no longer be ignored, Grallon would be dead. The new King of Ys would find the Imperial authorities quite willing to pardon any offense against their law, in return for a payment that he could easily make out of the city treasury. Thereafter he could go about lifting the burden off you, his people, that Grallon laid on you. He would be a hero. So would those be who died to prepare the way for him. Their fame would be immortal.”
As he talked, Theuderich had begun shivering and panting. At the end, the Frank bayed. “How can this happen?”
“We will talk about that,” Nagon said. “Pray understand, my lord, the new King need not—must not—become a sacrificial animal waiting for slaughter. His aim shall be to change everything there, piece by piece, until at last he can bequeath the city to Rome, the way I’ve heard the kingdom of Pergamum was. The Romans will quietly guide him. They won’t interfere with his pleasures. Think, nine lovely wives, and the fabulous city itself! In the end, Ys will be Christian, but this King we’re talking about cannot be, if he’s to lead the rites as he must, unless maybe in his old age he chooses baptism. Oh, a Frankish warrior would be perfect. He’d be an omen foreshadowing the future of all Gallia.”
Theuderich stared.
One evening before midsummer, a sunset of rare beauty kindled above Ocean. For a timeless time clouds shone with rose and gold and every hue between, against a clear blue that slowly deepened toward purple. The waters breathed calm, giving back to heaven those changeable colors. Whenever it seemed the splendor was about to fade into that night which had already led forth the first eastern stars, fieriness broke free again. Entranced, folk throughout Ys swarmed onto the wall; their murmurs of wonder were as low as the sea’s.
Rufinus was one of them. He could have watched from the Polaris, but not as well. On his way, he knocked on the door of Tommaltach, who occupied rooms below his. Together they hastened by the shipyard and up the staircase there. Being important men, they won admission past the guards at the Raven Tower, away from the crowd and onto the stretch where the war engines were. Only a few Suffetes and ladies had done likewise. Those couples or individuals kept well apart, desirous of nothing except the miracle before them. The two comrades recognized Queens Bodilis and Tambilis at some distance, but did not venture greetings.
Finally glory smoldered away forever. People grew conscious of chill in the air and began to descend while they still had light. More and more stars trembled above inland hills. The western clouds had gone smoky.
“Ah, that was a sight of the Beyond, and I thank you for calling me to it,” Tommaltach said. “The flames of Mag Mell—though it may be what we have glimpsed is from somewhere greater, from One Who is above the Gods.”
Rufinus laughed. “You’re too serious for a young lad,” he answered. “Come along to my apartment and we’ll pour a stoup and be our proper, roisterous selves.”
Tommaltach’s vision strained into the gathering dusk. “Was Princess Dahut here to see? I do hope so.”
As they approached the Raven Tower, several men came from its door. They wore vestments above their clothes. It was not yet too dark to discern the features of Cynan, Verica, Maclavius, a few Ysans—and, in the lead, King Gratillonius, Father of the Mithraic congregation.
Feet halted. Rufinus and Tommaltach touched their brows. “Hail, lord,” they said. Gratillonius responded.
Rufinus’s teeth flashed in the blackness of his fork beard. “A pity this was a holy day of yours,” he remarked. Clearly it was, for ordinarily a believer would just say a prayer wherever he happened to be at nightfall. “While you were underground worshipping the sun, he gave the rest of us the most marvelous spectacle.”
“’Twas Mithras we communed with,” Gratillonius reminded him, “and His light shone upon our souls.” A certain exaltation lingered in him. “My friend, if you would only listen—”
Rufinus shook his head. Pain edged his tones. “Nay, I’ll not pretend what is false… before you. Never can I be a communicant of your faith.”
“You’ve told me that erenow, but will not say why. Surely—”
“Never.”
Tommaltach quivered. “But I, sir!” burst from him. “I would try my best to understand.”
Gratillonius regarded him as closely as the dimness allowed. “Think well,” he said. “This is naught to trifle with.”
“Nor do I mean to.” Tommaltach’s voice had lost his usual confident cheer. “What I’ve been watching—Oh, but ’tis more than that. Since coming to Ys and knowing—you—well, the city, the world beyond, enough to see that I really know nothing—The gods of Ériu are far off, sir, and They seem so small.”
“Mock Them not. However—” Gratillonius smiled. He reached forth to clasp the Scotian’s arm. “Of course well talk, you and I, and if you come to believe in all honesty that Mithras is Lord, why, I myself will lead you into His mysteries,” said the father of Dahut.