1
Rovinda, wife of Apuleius, slipped into the darkened room. She left the door ajar behind her. “How are you, Gratillonius?” she murmured. “Sleeping?”
The man in the bed hardly stirred. “No, I’ve been lying awake.” His words came flat.
She approached. “We shall eat shortly. Will you join us?”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
She looked downward. By light that seeped in from the hallway and past the heavy curtain across the window she saw how gaunt and sallow he had grown. “You should. You’ve scarcely tasted food these past—how many days since you came to us?”
Gratillonius didn’t answer. He couldn’t remember. Six, seven, eight? It made no difference.
The woman gathered courage. “You must not continue like this.”
“I am … worn out.”
Her tone sharpened. “You fought your way out of the flood, and afterward exhausted what strength you had left for the sake of what people had survived. True. But that soldier’s body of yours should have recovered in a day or two. Gratillonius, they still need you. We all do.”
He stared up at her. Though no longer young, she was sightly: tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed, fine-featured, born to a well-off Osismiic family with ancient Roman connections. He recalled vaguely that she was even more quiet and mild than her husband, but even more apt to get her way in the end. He sighed. “I would if I could, Rovinda. Leave me in peace.”
“It’s no longer weariness that weighs you down. It’s sorrow.”
“No doubt. Leave me alone with it.”
“Others have suffered bereavement before you. It is the lot of mortals.” She said nothing about the children she had lost, year after year.
Two lived. Well, he thought, two of his did, Nemeta and Julia, together with little Korai, granddaughter of Bodilis. But the rest were gone. Dahut was gone, Dahilis’s daughter, swept from him with foundering Ys, off into Ocean. Would her bones find her mothers down there?
“You should be man enough to carry on,” Rovinda said. “Call on Christ. He will help you.”
Gratillonius turned his face to the wall.
Rovinda hesitated before she bent above him and whispered, “Or call on what God or Gods you will. Your Mithras you’ve been so faithful to? Sometimes I—please keep this secret; it would hurt Apuleius too much—I am a Christian, of course, but sometimes in hours of grief I’ve stolen away and opened my heart to one of the old Goddesses. Shall I tell you about Her? She’s small and kindly.”
Gratillonius shook his head on the pillow.
Rovinda straightened. “I’ll go, since you want me to. But I’ll send in a bowl of soup, at least. Promise me you’ll take that much.”
He kept silent. She went out.
Gratillonius looked back toward the ceiling. Sluggishly, he wondered what did ail him. He should indeed have been up and about. The ache had drained from muscles and marrow. But what remained was utter slackness. It was as if a sorcerer had turned him to lead, no, to a sack of meal. Where worms crawled. Most of his hours went in drowsing—never honest sleep, or so it seemed.
Well, why not? What else? The world was formless, colorless, empty of meaning. All Gods were gone from it. He wondered if They had ever cared, or ever existed. The question was as vain as any other. He felt an obscure restlessness, and supposed that in time it would force him to start doing things. They had better be dullard’s tasks, though; he was fit for nothing more.
—Brightness roused him. He blinked at the slim form that rustled in carrying a bowl. Savory odors drifted out of it. “Here is your soup, Uncle Gaius,” Verania greeted. “M-m-mother said I could bring it to you.”
“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled.
“Oh, please.’ The girl set it down on a small table which she drew to the bedside. She dared a smile. “Make us happy. Old Namma—the cook, you know—worked extra hard on it. She adores you.”
Gratillonius decided it was easiest to oblige. He sat up. Verania beamed. “Ah, wonderful! Do you want me to feed it to you?”
That stung. He threw her a glare but encountered only innocence. “I’m not crippled,” he growled, and reached for the spoon. After a few mouthfuls he put it back.
“Now you can eat more than that,” she coaxed. “Just a little more. One for Namma. She does have good taste, doesn’t she? In men, I mean—Oh!” She brought hand to lips. By the sunlight reflected off a corridor wall he saw her blush fiery.
Somehow that made him obey. And that encouraged her. She grew almost merry. “Fine. Take another for … for your horse Favonius. Poor dear, he misses you so. … One for Hercules. … One for Ulysses. … One for, m-m, my brother. You promised Salomon you’d teach him sword- and shieldcraft when he was big enough, do you remember? … One for Julius Caesar. One for Augustus. One for Tiberius. You don’t have to take one for Caligula, but Claudius was nice, wasn’t he?”
With a flicker of wish to argue, Gratillonius said, “He conquered Britannia.”
“He made your people Romans, like mine. Give him his libation, do. Down your throat. Good.” She clapped her hands.
Feet thudded in the hall. Verania squeaked. She and Gratillonius gaped at the tall gaunt man in the travel-stained rough robe who entered. He strode to the bedside and placed himself arms akimbo, glowering.
“I hear you’re ill.” His voice was harsher than before, as if he had lately shouted a great deal. “What’s the matter? Rovinda says you have no fever.”
“You’re back,” Gratillonius said.
Corentinus’s gray beard waggled to his nod, as violent as that was. “Tell me more, O wise one. I’ve brought men for you. Now get out and use them, for I’ve reached the limit of what I can make those muleheads do.”
“Sir, he is sick,” Verania made bold to plead. “What do you want of him? Can’t father take charge, or, or anybody?”
The pastor softened at sight of her face. Tears trembled on her lashes. “I fear not, child,” he said. “To begin with, they are pagans, disinclined to heed me.”
“From Ys—from what was Ys?”
He nodded. “We must start at once preparing a place for the survivors. The first few score have lodging here, but not for long; soon the traders will be coming, and Aquilo needs them too much to deny them their usual quarters. Besides, it could never take in all who are left in the countryside. They’ll require shelter, defenses—homes. Your father has most Christianly granted a good-sized site, his farmland. Oh, you knew already? Well, first we should make a ditch and wall: for evildoers will hear of the disaster and come seeking to take advantage. I went back after able-bodied men. On the way, I thought they’d better include some who know how to fight.”
He and Apuleius decided this, and he walked off … without me, Gratillonius thought. Inwardly he cringed. Aloud: “Who did you find?”
“I remembered that squad of marines at the Nymphaeum,” Corentinus answered. “They refused to leave unless the women came too. They think it’s their sacred duty to guard the women of the Temple. Well, that’s manly of them. But I had a rocky time persuading the priestess in charge, that Runa, persuading her to leave immediately. At last she agreed. By then such a span had passed that I thought best we go straightaway. The marines could begin on the fortifications while I went after additional labor. But they will not. I stormed and swore, but couldn’t shake them.”
“Why?” wondered Gratillonius.
“In part their leader claims they must stay with their charges. I have to admit Runa’s trying to convince them she and the others will be safe in Aquilo. But also, they say it’s demeaning work. Furthermore, they don’t know how to do it. Ha!”
Gratillonius tugged his beard. “There’s truth in that,” he said slowly. “It’s more than just digging. Cutting turfs and laying them to make a firm wall is an art.” After a moment: “An art never known in Ys because it was never needed, and pretty much lost in Gallia. I think we in the Britannia were the last of the real old legionaries. On the Continent they’ve become cadres at best—the best not worth much—for peasant reserves and barbarian mercenaries.”
The eagles of Rome fly no more. All at once the thought was not insignificant like everything mortal, nor saddening or frightening. It infuriated him.
“So stop malingering,” Corentinus snapped. “Go show them.”
“Oh!” wailed Verania, shocked and indignant.
“By Hercules, I will.” Gratillonius swung himself out of the blankets onto the floor. He had forgotten his nakedness. Verania smothered a gasp and fled. His blunder lashed yet more life into him. He had to make it good. Flinging on tunic, hastily binding sandals, he stalked from the room, Corentinus at his heels.
Given directions, he found the party outside of town, at the western end of the bridge across the Odita. He must push through a crowd of curious local folk. They kept well aside, though, and he glimpsed some making furtive signs against witchcraft.
It was a clear afternoon. He felt a faint amazement at how bright the sunlight was. A blustery wind chased small clouds; a flight of storks passed overhead, as white as they. Light burned along the greenness that had bestormed fields and forest. The wind was sharp, with a taste of newly turned earth in it. Women’s dresses, men’s cloaks, stray locks of hair fluttered.
The vestals shared none of the wind’s vigor. Their trip had been cruel to soft feet, though they took turns on the four horses and had overnighted in a charcoal burner’s hut. They clutched their garments and stared with eyes full of fright—and Nemeta’s an underlying defiance. Korai clung to Julia’s hand like an infant. Runa did seem undaunted. Her lips were pressed thin in anger. She hailed Gratillonius coldly.
The dozen marines stood together, Amreth at their head. They bore the full gear of their corps: peaked helmets, flared shoulderpieces and greaves, loricated cuirasses engraved with abstract motifs, cloth blue or gray like the sea, laurel-leaf swords, hooked pikes. Gratillonius felt relief at seeing the metal was polished; but the outfits made them glaringly alien here.
He approached the leader and halted. Amreth gave him salute. He responded as was fitting among Ysans. “Greeting,” he said in their tongue, “and welcome to your new home.”
“We thank you, lord,” Amreth answered with care.
“’Twill take work ere ’tis fit for the settling of our folk. What’s this I hear about your refusing duty?”
Amreth braced himself. “Lord, I am of Suffete family. Most of us are. Pick-and-shovel work is for commoners.”
“’Twas good enough for Rome’s legionaries when Caesar met Brennilis. Sailors born to Suffetes toil side by side with their low-born shipmates. Do you fear you lack the strength?”
Amreth reddened beneath his sunburn. “Nay, lord. We lack skill. Why not bring men off the farms?”
“They’re plowing and sowing, lest everyone go hungry later. Twill be a lean year, with so many mouths. Be thankful Aquilo will share till we can take care of ourselves.”
“Well, countryfolk who were your subjects are still back in the homeland. Fetch them, lord. Our duty is to these holy maidens.”
“Aye. To make a proper place for them, not stand idle when they’ve ample protection waiting behind yonder rampart.”
Amreth frowned. Gratillonius drew breath. “They who remain of Ys are my subjects,” he said levelly. “I am the King. I broke the Scoti, I broke the Franks, and I slew every challenger who sought me in the Wood. If the Gods of Ys have forsaken my people, I have not. I will show you what to do and teach you how and cut the first turfs with these hands that have wielded my sword.” He raised his voice. “Attention! Follow me.”
For an instant he thought he had lost. Then Amreth said, “Aye, King,” and beckoned to his men. They fell in behind Gratillonius.
“I will take them to the site, and barrack them later,” he told Runa. “Let Corentinus lead you and the vestals to your quarters now, my lady.”
She nodded. He marched off with the marines, over the bridge, through the town, out the east gate, northward along the river to the confluence. As yet he must compel himself, hold a shield up to hide the vacantness within; but already he felt it filling and knew he would become a man again. If nothing else, he had a man’s work ahead of him.
It was odd how he kept thinking of Runa. Her look upon him had turned so thoughtful.
2
Most fruit trees were done with blooming, but a new loveliness dwelt in Liguria. From mountains north, south, and west, the plain around Mediolanum reached eastward beyond sight, orchards, fields marked off by rows of mulberry and poplar whose leaves danced in the breeze, tiny white villages. The air lulled blithe with birdsong. It was as if springtime would repay men for the harshness of the winter past, the brutality of the summer to come. Even slaves went about their work with a measure of happiness.
Rufinus and Dion rode back to the city. Sunlight slanted from low on their right. The horses plodded. They had covered a number of miles since leaving at dawn. In hills northward they had had hours of rest while their riders took the pleasures of the woodland, food and drink, lyre and song, frolic, love, ease in each other’s nearness. But the return trip was long. When walls and towers became clear in their sight, the animals regained some briskness.
Rufinus laughed. “They’re ready for the good old stable, they are! And what would you say to an hour or two in the baths?”
“Well,” Dion replied with his usual diffidence, “it will be pleasant. And still—-I wish this day did not have to end. If only we could have stayed where we were forever.”
Rufinus’s glance went fondly over him, from chestnut hair and tender countenance to the lissomeness of the sixteen-year-old body. “Be careful about wishes, dear. Sometimes they’re granted. I’ve lived in forests, remember.”
“Oh, but you were an outlaw then. You’ve been everything, haven’t you? Naturally, I meant—”
“I know. You meant the Empire would bring us our wine and delicacies and fresh clothes, and keep bad men away, and be there for us to visit whenever the idyll grew a bit monotonous. Don’t scoff at civilization. It’s not just more safe and comfortable than barbarism, it’s much more interesting.”
“It did not do well by you when you were young. I hope those people who were cruel to you are burning in hell.”
The scar that seamed Rufinus’s right cheek turned his smile into a sneer. “I doubt it. Why should the Gods trouble Themselves about us?”
Dion’s smooth cheeks flushed. “The true God cares.”
“Maybe. I don’t say that whatever Powers there are can never be bribed or flattered. Heaven knows you Christians try. I do ask whether it’s worthwhile. All history shows Them to be incompetent at best, bloodthirsty and dishonest at worst. Supposing They exist, that is.”
The Gaul saw distress rise in his servant. He made his smile warm, leaned over, squeezed the youth’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was nothing but an opinion. Don’t let it spoil things for you. I’m not bitter, truly I’m not. Since I became the sworn man of the King of Ys, my fate has generally been good. At last it brought me to you. That’s why I praise civilization and call it worth defending as long as possible.”
Large brown eyes searched the green of his. “As long as possible, did you say?” Dion’s words wavered.
He was so vulnerable. But he needed to learn. His life had been sheltered: son of a Greek factor in Neapolis by a concubine native to that anciently Greek city, taught arts and graces as well as letters, apprenticed in the household of an Imperial courtier two years ago, assigned to Rufinus as a courtesy after the Gaul became a man whose goodwill was desirable, and by this new master initiated in the mysteries of Eros. “I do not want to make you unhappy, my sweet,” Rufinus emphasized. “You have heard about the dangers afoot, both inside and outside the Empire. We needn’t feel sorry for ourselves on their account. Coping with them is the grandest game in the world.”
“You find it so,” Dion breathed worshipfully. White with dread, he had watched Rufinus’s hell-for-leather chariot racing and other such sports. The first time, Rufinus could only sooth him afterward by tuning a harp and singing him the gentlest of the songs that the envoy of Ys had brought from the North.
Rufinus blew a kiss. “Well, maybe the second grandest,” he laughed.
His own happiness bubbled. Of course he longed for everything he had had to leave, but that was months agone and forebodings had faded. Here the newnesses, adventures, challenges, accomplishments—real victories won for Gratillonius and Ys—were endless, and now Dion had come to him. Oh, true, they must be discreet. However, that did not mean they must be furtive; those at court who guessed found it politic to keep winks and sniggers private, if indeed anyone especially cared. And this was no bestial grappling among the Bacaudae nor hurried encounter with a near stranger, it was an exploration day by day and night by night shared with beauty’s self.
They left their horses at a livery stable and passed on foot through the city gate to a majestic street. Seat of the Emperors of the West for nearly a hundred years, Mediolanum had accumulated splendors and squalors which perhaps only Constantinople surpassed. Often Rufinus found the architecture heavy, even oppressive, when he thought of the slimnesses in Ys; sometimes the vulgarity ceased for a while to excite, the shrill contentions of the Christian sects to amuse, and he remembered a people who bore the pridefulness of cats; but this place was at the core of things, while Ys merely sought to hold herself aloof. This was where men laid snares for men, and his heart beat the higher for it.
Through workers, carters, vendors, beggars, housewives, whores, holy men, soldiers, slaves, thieves, mountebanks, provincials from end to end of the Empire, barbarians from beyond, through racket and chatter and fragrance and stench, he led the way to the home granted him. It was a small apartment, but in a respectable tenement and on the first floor. (In Ys he lived, by choice, up among winds and wings.) Dion would choose clean clothes for them both, they would seek the baths and luxuriate until they came back for a light supper the boy would prepare, and then—whatever they liked. Perhaps simply a little talk before sleep. Rufinus would do most of the conversing. He enjoyed the role of teacher.
A eunuch in palace livery sat on the hallway floor at the apartment entrance. He jumped to his feet when he saw them. “At last, sir!” he piped. “Quickly! I am bidden to bring you before Master of Soldiers Flavius Stilicho.”
“What?” exclaimed Rufinus. He heard Dion gasp. “But nobody knew where I was or when I’d return.”
“So I informed his gloriousness after I learned.” The messenger’s hairless, somehow powdery face drew into a web of lines. “He was most kind; he bade me go back and wait for you. Come, sir, let us make haste.”
Rufinus nodded. “At once.” With a grin: “He’s an old campaigner, he won’t mind dust and sweat on me.”
“Oh, he has much else to occupy his attention, you know, sir. Doubtless you’ll make an appointment with a deputy for tomorrow. But come.”
“Seek the baths yourself,” Rufinus suggested to Dion.
“I’ll wash here and have a meal ready for you,” his companion answered, and gazed after him till he was gone from sight.
Hurrying along thoroughfares where traffic was diminishing, Rufinus tugged the short black forks of his beard and scowled in thought. What in the name of crazy Cernunnos might this be? Why should he be summoned by the dictator of the West? And of the East, too, they said, now that the Gothic general Gainas was in charge there; Gainas was Stilicho’s creature, and Emperor Arcadius a weakling a few years older than his brother and colleague Honorius, who in turn was one year older than Dion. … Rufinus had conveyed letters from the King of Ys, Bishop Martinus of Turonum, and others in the North. He had contrived excuses to linger while he made himself interesting or entertaining or useful in this way and that way to men of secondary importance at court, until by their favor his status was quasi-official. He could doubtless continue the balancing act till his term of exile ended and he went home. But how did he suddenly come to be of any fresh concern to Stilicho, so much that the great man wanted to see him in person?
Rufinus sketched a grin and swayed his head about snakewise. It might not be on its neck this time tomorrow.
Sunset flared off glass in upper stories of the palace compound. The eunuch’s garb and password gave quick admittance through a succession of doors and guards. He left the Gaul in an anteroom while he went off to find the deputy he had mentioned. Rufinus sat down and tried to count the blessings of the day that had just ended. The garishness of the religious figures on the walls kept intruding.
The eunuch returned. Three more followed him. “You are honored, sir,” he twittered. “The consul will see you at once.”
Aye, thought Rufinus in Ysan, this year did also that title, of much pomp and scant meaning, come to the mighty Stilicho. Well, he had forced peacefulness on the Visigoths in the East (though ’twas strange that King Alaric received an actual Roman governorship in Illyricum) and had put down rebellion in Africa and two years agone had married his daughter to the Emperor Honorius. … Precautions and deference were passed. The two men were alone.
Twilight was stealing into the austere room where Stilicho sat in a chair behind a table. Before him was a litter of papyruses he must have been going through, documents or dispatches or whatever they were, together with some joined thin slabs of wood whereon were inked words that Rufinus suspected meant vastly more. The general showed the Vandal side of his descent in height and the time-dulled blondness of hair and short beard. He wore a robe plain, rumpled, not overly clean, the sleeves drawn back from his hairy forearms.
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!”
“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 mother, 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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