Gratillonius had passed through three years before, on his mission of keeping the western end of the peninsula quiescent while Maximus warred. Now, when he returned, Apuleius Vero made him heartily welcome. They had struck it off at once, in spite of the host being a devoted Christian.
After all, the centurion served Rome too; he had fascinating things to tell of the city in his charge; he was making possible a revival of commerce. For his part, Apuleius was well travelled, well read, experienced in the ways of the world. After his student days in the South he had dreamed or a public career, and begun by becoming a confidential amanuensis to the governor of Aquitania. But the death of his father laid on him the duty of coming back and taking over a post in which Gratillonius considered him wasted. Likely Apuleius would have agreed, save that Roman virtue and Christian piety both forbade him to complain against fate.
“You wish to strengthen further the ties between Ys and the Gauls?” he asked when they were alone. “Why? Not that the resumption of dealings hasn’t profited everybody. It has, and nowhere more than in my poor Aquilo. However, the Empire is again tranquil, and the barbarians have drawn in their horns since that disaster the Scoti suffered. Can trade not grow of itself?”
He was a slender man in his mid-thirties, of medium height, dark-haired, straight-nosed, clean-shaven, with large hazel eyes whose nearsightedness caused him to wear an appearance of intense concentration. Somehow he seemed to Gratillonius more Hellenic than Roman, perhaps because in his quiet fashion he took pride in a bloodline going back to Magna Graecia. As the man sat, his wife Rovinda came softly in and replenished the wine and nuts they had been enjoying. She was young, comely, the daughter of an Osismiic headman. Since their marriage two years ago, Apuleius had been teaching her the manners of a senatorial matron; but she had never lacked inborn gentility. They had a single child thus far, a girl, and another swelled within her.
Gratillonius weighed his reply. He had rehearsed it in his mind, for he would need it repeatedly, but this was the first time.
“I’m afraid that tranquility is only on the surface, and can’t last much longer,” he said. “You’ve heard of the Priscillianist business last year?”
Apuleius grimaced. “Ugly, from what little I know. Unworthy of the Faith. But it’s behind us now, praise God. Isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure.” Gratillonius frowned into a lampflame. The floor of the house was warm from a hypocaust, but the air kept a chill, and outside the shuttered windows an autumn wind wuthered. “The church stays divided, and it and the Empire are woven together. Maximus accuses Valentinianus of heresy. It may be just a pretext. But what a dangerous pretext! No, I don’t think we’ve seen the end of civil war.”
“God help us,” Apuleius said sorrowfully. “But what can we do, you and I? We’re nothing but minor officers of the state. How can you bypass the Duke of the Armorican Tract?”
Gratillonius smiled. “You think I might take too much on myself? Well, I am the prefect of Rome, not of Maximus Augustus but of Rome, in Ys, which is not a province but a sovereign ally and has made me its King. I read that as meaning I’ve got discretion to act in the public interest as I see it, and answer for my actions afterward… to the proper authority.”
“That would be the Duke, wouldn’t it? How will he feel about you making his policies for him?”
“I may be cocky, Apuleius, but I’m not crazy. I wrote and got his leave to, m-m, ‘do what seems best to develop further those good relations between Ys and the Roman communities on which a start has lately been made.’ The Duke’s no dunderhead either. He recognizes the facts, no matter how he has to gloss them over. First, he’s necessarily most concerned with the eastern and inland parts of the peninsula. I can do in the west what he cannot, and he knows it. Second, he never was happy about Maximus’s rebellion. He hinted pretty strongly, in writing to me, that my aims please him.”
“I see…. But what are they?”
“This: that western Armorica, and as much else of it as I can reach, not get embroiled in any new fighting. That we refuse demands on us to come help kill our fellow Romans, in anybody’s cause.”
“Which means the cause of Maximus, you know.”
Gratillonius nodded. “I think, if we do stand together in this resolution, I think he’ll know better than to order us to break it. Later, if he prevails—well, at least we Armoricans will be strong enough to have some say in what happens to us. And he might not prevail.”
“Valentinianus is weak,” Apuleius mused, “but if Theodosius should take a hand—”
A tingle went through Gratillonius. “It could be. Who knows? In which case Armorica might expect quite favorable treatment. A daydream, maybe. I don’t tell myself any nursery tales about us making the difference in what happens. I just think our chances will be better, and Rome will be better served, if Armorica looks after its own, unitedly.”
“Under Ysan leadership.”
Gratillonius shrugged. “Who else is taking the initiative? Besides, Ys is the natural leader of this whole region.” He grew earnest. “Believe me, though—I give you my word of honor—I’ve no ambitions for myself.”
Inwardly, fugitively, he wondered. The world groaned in its need for a man who could set things right. Why could nobody else see what must be done? It was so simple. Government firm, just, obedient to its own laws; military reforms and the taming of the barbarians; honest currency; reduction of taxes, of every burden that was destroying the productive classes; liberation of the individual man from bondage to the estate to which he was born; religious toleration—nothing else, really, than what he had hoped Maximus would enact.
But Gratillonius had no legions to hail him Emperor. He would do well if he could save Ys for Mithras and Dahut. If he was very fortunate, he might save Armorica. Give him that and he would lie down contentedly on his deathbed, knowing he had been a good son of Rome.
Apuleius considered him a while before saying, “I think I’ll believe you. To be frank, I also think you talk too vauntingly. What do you and I really know”—a hint of bitterness—“in these backwaters where we sit?”
“I’ve been out,” Gratillonius replied. “Last year, for months, over much of Gallia. I spoke with men as various as Maximus himself in Treverorum and Ausonius—well, an old, learned man in Burdigala.”
Apuleius sat straight. “What?” he exclaimed. “Ausonius? Why, I studied under him. How is he?”
Gratillonius gladly let conversation go in that direction. Apuleius’s admiration for Ausonius was not unalloyed. Arriving in Burdigala while Julianus the Apostate still reigned, himself at the vulnerable, combative age of twelve, he had—as he wryly admitted—changed from an indifferent to a prayerful Christian largely in reaction against the coolness or outright paganism he encountered everywhere around him. Ausonius, he felt, was a man of antiquity, born out of his time, who accepted Christ with the same impersonal politeness he would earlier have accorded Jupiter. And yet, and yet, Ausonius had such riches to give….
The evening ended a trifle drunkenly and altogether cheerily.
3
Morning was lucent. Gratillonius made it an excuse for staying another day. He would take advantage of the weather to do what he had not had time to do on his previous visit, ride around the countryside and get a little familiarity with it—for purposes of military planning if that need should arise, he told Apuleius.
His host smiled, and declined to accompany him. Apuleius was no outdoorsman. He kept fit with methodical exercises, as a duty, but gave his leisure to his books, correspondence, religious observances, family, and whatever intelligent conversation came his way. He offered to assign Gratillonius a guide, but the latter refused in his turn and rode off alone.
The fact was that he wanted solitude, as a man does now and then.
It was hard to find when he must always be either the King of Ys, the prefect of Rome, or a centurion of the Second. Therefore he likewise left behind the legionaries who were escorting h
im, to take their ease with the Aquilo garrison. This consisted of some infantry recruited mostly among the local Osismii and a few horsemen. Younger men of the civil population formed a reserve that would augment it in times of emergency. The Duke had never felt that more strength was needed here. True, pirates often ravaged the estuary—a few years ago they wrecked the lovely villa of the Pulcher family—and occasionally rowed upstream; but to date they had always been driven off short of the city. Ruinous though Vorgium was, the main force in these parts continued to be stationed there.
Gratillonius was soon out of Aquilo. On the left bank of the Odita, it amounted to a few hundred homes—cob, timber, brick, the elegant but small town house of the Apuleii—together with such establishments as a church, a smithy, a marketplace, and a couple of warehouses down by the harbor. Smoke seeped from thatch roofs or curled out of holes in tile coverings; wives went about their tasks with pauses to gossip; wheels creaked; an anvil rang. This late in the year, no merchant vessels lay docked, and Gratillonius did not go out that gate and over the bridge to the west. Instead, he took the eastern portal. The walls around the city were of the old Gallic sort, earth over interlocked logs reinforced with rubble, wooden blockhouses at the corners.
On his right, as he followed a dirt road upstream, was a narrow strip of lowland, behind which rose that long, high hill called Mons Ferruginus. Dwellings dotted it, well-nigh lost to view among the reds, bronzes, golds of autumnal woods. Most migratory birds had departed but heaven was bewinged by crows, sparrows, robins, a falcon afar.
After a short distance, he saw the lesser Stegir flow from the north and join the Odita on the opposite side. Past that was a bridge to cross, whose planks boomed underhoof. On the farther shore the land rolled gently. He left behind him the Odita, which here ran from the east before it bent south, and took a rutted road paralleling the Stegir. It led him through cultivated land, the estate of the Apuleii. He saw the cottages of three tenant families. Beyond them he passed the manor house. Its owner used it mostly as a retreat. Sere weeds and brambles filled much former plowland, with saplings as outrunners of the wildwood in the offing. Lack of markets, lack of labor—how much of this had he come upon!
His spirits revived after the road, becoming scarcely more than a path, took him into the forest. That began about where the channel of the Stegir shifted west. It walled in the farmland on two sides. Mainly it was oak, though beech, maple, ash, and other trees made it at this season a storm of color. There was scant underbrush; deer kept that down, as well as the swine that boys herded. The ground was a softness of soil and old leaves, with fallen boles on which moss grew smaragdine. Squirrels frisked about, small red meteors. Vision faded off into sun-spattered shadows. The air was cool, moist, smelling like mushrooms.
He rode on for a timeless time, letting his thoughts drift. And then, abruptly, a stag stepped into view ahead of him, a glorious beast with a mighty rack of antlers. He reined in. It stopped and stared down the path at him. He had brought a bow along in case of such luck. His hand stole down to unsling it, take an arrow, nock, aim. The stag bounded off. The shaft missed. “Harroo!” Gratillonius shouted, and urged his mount into gallop.
A while the chase thundered over the ruts. Gratillonius’s big gelding narrowed the gap. The stag veered and went off among the trees. Gratillonius followed.
Of course it was in vain. He dared not keep on at full unheeding speed where a root or a burrow might cause his horse to snap a leg. The quarry soared now right, now left, until presently the splendid sight glimmered away. Gratillonius halted and swore. His mount whickered, breathed hard, stood sweating.
The man’s oath was good-natured. He hadn’t really expected to take the prey. The challenge had merely been irresistible, and he’d gotten a grand run. Best he return to his route. He wanted to reach cleared country on the far side of the woods and survey it before he must start back.
He had ridden for a spell when it came to him that he should already have been on the road. How could he have missed it? Every direction looked the same, and a haze had drawn over the sky to obscure the sun. What he sought was no spear-straight Roman highway but a track that twisted to and fro like the ancient game trail that doubtless underlay it. He could cast about for hours, randomly seeking a random goal.
He swore with more feeling. The anger was at himself. He had imagined that in the past few years he had learned to control a quick temper, an impulsiveness, that used to get him into unnecessary embroilments. Well, apparently that thing was not dead in him; it had been lying low, biding its chance to spring forth.
“Gone astray, lured off by a deer, like a chieftain in a folk tale,” he muttered. “I’ll never hear the end of this.”
To be sure, if he could get back before dark, he needn’t confess…. When he studied the sky carefully, bearing in mind the time of day and year, he established which way was south. The Stegir was certain to be somewhere yonder. Having reached it, he could follow it till it met the Odita.
The quest proved long. The forest floor was only partly clear. Often he must work through or around brush, logs, or pools. When at last he found the stream, the going along it was no better.
The sun went out of sight. Murk and chill welled from the earth. He realized that night would overtake him. To struggle on would be foolhardy. Best he halt soon and make himself as little uncomfortable as possible while he waited for dawn. He had taken with him just a piece of bread and cheese, long since eaten. His belly growled.
The Stegir gurgled around a thicket. Having passed this, he suddenly came upon a hut. A trail, narrow but clear, went thence, doubtless toward the road. Gladness jumped within him. He would still have to spend the night, but here was shelter, and a quick journey come morning. He drew rein and dismounted. His horse’s head drooped, as exhausted as the poor beast was.
The hut was tiny, a cylinder of wicker and clay, moss-chinked, under a conical thatch roof. A hide hung from a stick in place of a proper door. He had seen better housing among the Picti. However, the oak whose boughs arched above was magnificent. “Hail,” he called. “Is anybody home?” The gloomy depths around blotted up his voice.
The hide crackled aside and a man stepped out. He was tall, powerfully built in spite of gauntness. A crag of nose and headland of chin jutted from a long, hollow-cheeked face; the black eyes were set deep under shaggy brows; the stiff black hair and beard, roughly haggled, were shot with white. He wore a coarse linsey-woolsey robe, belted with a rope. The bare feet: were callused and begrimed. Clearly he had not bathed at any recent time, if ever, although an outdoor life made his odor pungent, a bit smoky, rather than sour.
“Peace be with you,” he said in Latin. His voice was rather harsh. “Are you lost?” He smiled, showing large teeth. “You seem to be a stranger to these parts, and at this hour I doubt you’ve come for counsel.”
“I am Gratillonius, a soldier, and I have certainly missed my way. Is Aquilo very far?”
“No, but too much for you to reach before nightfall, my son. May I offer you my humble hospitality? I am Corentinus, a hermit.” The man looked up between boughs to gray-purple heaven, sniffed the air, and nodded. “We’ll have rain in a while. At least my roof is tight.”
“Thank you.” Gratillonius hesitated. He didn’t want to impose on poverty. “Could I, in return, help or—or make a donation?”
“You may make an offering to the Church if you wish. I myself have no needs that God and these two hands cannot fill.” Corentinus regarded him. “You must be famished. It’s not my habit to eat more than once a day, but I’ll prepare you something and—” the laugh rang—“he would be a rude host who didn’t share with his guest.”
Gratillonius led his horse to drink, unsaddled and rubbed it down, tethered it nearby to graze on some herbage that kept a few withered leaves. Meanwhile he cast mind back over what he knew about hermits. That was hearsay. A practice, said to have originated in Egypt, was spreading northward through Europe, devout Christians go
ing off to be alone with their God, away from the temptations of the world and even the distractions of the Church. Believers, including otherwise pagan countryfolk, often sought out such holy men, who must surely have wisdom and powers beyond the ordinary.
This Corentinus didn’t seem quite to fit the picture. If nothing else, he looked too robust; and he must once have been fairly well educated.
Turning from his chores, Gratillonius saw him, robe hiked over knobbly knees, squatting in the burn. Its iciness made no visible difference to him. He murmured—a prayer?—and reached underwater. After a moment he rose. A large trout lay in his hands. Lay! Eeriness touched Gratillonius. The fish was alive; its sheen in the fading light showed it to be healthy; but it did not flop, and it had come straight into that grasp.
“God provides, you see,” said Corentinus calmly. He waded ashore and went into his hut. Half stunned, Gratillonius followed. The interior was dark, save for a small, banked fire on the dirt floor, which gave just enough light to work by if you knew where everything was. Corentinus took a knife that rested on a slab with a few other objects. “Be you blessed, little brother,” he said, “and be God thanked for His manifold mercies.”
With a deft motion he sliced the flesh from one side of the trout and tossed the piece down. Gratillonius sucked in a breath of astounded outrage. He had never condoned cruelty to animals, and this was wanton. Yet the fish only waved its tail. Before Gratillonius could speak, Corentinus had gone back out. Gratillonius came after, automatically. The hermit cast the half filleted creature into the stream and signed the air with the Cross. Gratillonius gasped again. The trout was swimming off as if unharmed—and was it in fact whole, healed?
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