They met; together they went beyond themselves; presently they lay at peace with the universe. Outside, the wind hooted, rattled shutters, carried a noise of waves breaking mightily on the sea wall. Yesterday the King had barred the gate and locked it with the Key that he alone bore, lest the waters fling it open and rage into Ys. He did not expect to free those doors for a while; and few vessels would come thereafter. As winter neared, Ys drew into itself, even as he and his Queen did this day.
She chuckled. “What’s funny?” he asked.
“Oh, you,” she said. “Dutiful you, hiding away from work like a boy from the schoolmaster. It’s good to see you taking your ease, dear, merely enjoying yourself. You should do it oftener.”
Reminded, he sat up. “I forgot my morning prayer!”
She arched her brows. “For the very first time?”
“Uh, no.”
“I’m sure your Mithras will understand, and overlook it. Belisama does.” Bodilis’s glance went to the figurine that occupied a niche in her otherwise plainly furnished bedroom. Carved of oak whose grain followed the folds of Her hooded cloak, it showed the Goddess as a woman of middle age, serene, an enigmatic smile on Her lips.
I could adore a deity like that, he thought, if this were Her only aspect.
Putting solemnity aside, “We spoke of breakfast—” he began.
A knock on the door interrupted. “My lord, my lord!” called the voice of Bodilis’s chief manservant. “Forgive me, but a soldier of yours is here. He says he must see you this instant.”
“What?” Gratillonius swung feet to floor. His immediate feeling was of resentment. Could they never leave him alone? He took a robe off a peg and pulled it over himself. Bodilis rose too, with a rueful look for him.
His deputy Adminius waited in the atrium, wearing civil Ysan garb that he had donned with unmilitary hastiness. He saluted. “Begging your pardon, sir.” The lean, snaggle-toothed countenance was full of distress. “I’m afraid I got bad news. ’Ard news, anyway, though I’m sure the centurion can ’andle the matter.”
Gratillonius dismissed whatever happiness had still been aglow in him. “Speak.”
“You got a challenger, sir. At the Wood. One o’ the lodgekeepers came asking where you was, and I thought you should ’ear it from me.”
It was as if the wind came in off the street and wrapped around Gratillonius. “Do you know more?”
“No, sir. Should I go look? I can tell ’em I couldn’t find yer right away.”
Gratillonius shook his head. “Never mind,” he said dully. “Let me get shod”
He turned back toward the bedroom. Having covered her own nakedness, Bodilis had followed him and heard. She stood at the inner doorway, the color drained from her face. “Oh, no,” she whispered. The hands that groped across his were cold. “Not already.”
“The way of Ys,” Gratillonius rasped. He brushed past her.
Returning with sandals and cloak, he found she had not stirred. Those widened eyes struck remorse into him. He stopped, clasped her by the shoulders, and said, “I’m sorry. I forgot how terrible this must be to you. A total stranger, who may be another Colconor or, or anything. Don’t be afraid.” It might be kindly of him to change from Latin to Ysan: “Nay, fear not, heart of mine. I’ll smite the wretch ere he can slice a hair off my knuckle. For your sake.”
“I dare not pray,” she whispered. “This thing lies at the will of the Gods. But I’ll hope, and—and weep for you, Grallon, who so loathes this need laid upon him.”
He kissed her, quickly and roughly, and went forth with Adminius. The wind shrilled, sent dead leaves scrittling along the street, roused little breakers on rain puddles. It drove clouds before it, making light and shadow sickle over roofs, half veiling the towertops. Rooks winged dark on the blast. The garments of such folk as were out flapped as if they too were about to fly away.
“You’ll take ’im, sir, same as you did the last ’un,” Adminius avowed. “E’ll’ve ’ad a scant night’s rest in the wet. “E can’t be very smart, or ’e’d’ve waited till later ter arrive.”
Gratillonius nodded absently. The rule that the King must respond at once to a challenge, unless absent from the city, was doubtless meant for more than the immediate gratification of Taranis; it gave him an advantage. Frequent changes were undesirable, even when the monarch was a political nullity.
“And if perchance you don’t win, God forbid, w’y, ’e won’t last out the day ’imself,” Adminius went on. “Yer lads’ll see ter that.”
Shocked before he felt also touched, Gratillonius growled, “No. No legionary will raise a finger against him. That’s an order.”
“But, but yer the prefect o’ Rome!”
“The more reason to maintain law. Including this damnable law of Ys. We can’t have the city fall into disorder. Don’t you see, it’s the keystone of everything I’ve worked to build in Armorica.” Gratillonius considered. His mind had become as bleakly bright as the sunbeams. “If I fall, report to Soren Cartagi. He’ll be the effective governor for at least a while. Remind him of the need to continue my policies, for the good of Ys. Give him whatever help he requires. When he can spare you, bring the legionaries to the Duke and put them under his orders.”
Anguish asked: “Wot about yerself, sir?”
“Let them burn me and scatter the bones and ashes at sea. That’s what Ys does with her fallen Kings.” And I shall go home to Dahilis. “My brothers in Mithras will hold their own rites for me.”
Gratillonius stiffened his neck. “Enough,” he said. “I do not plan on getting killed. Forward march! On the double, soldier.”
At Dragon House he donned his centurion’s armor. All twenty-four of his men formed ranks and followed him out High Gate, battle-arrayed. By then word had spread and the streets were aswarm, ababble. Where Processional Way started north out of Aquilonian Way, a squad of marines formed a line to hold back the crowd. Through the wind, Gratillonius heard shouted wishes for his victory.
That warmed him a trifle. He had much to live for, and live he proposed to do. This challenger would scarcely be another pitiable Hornach, but rather some sturdy rogue prepared to take his chances. Quite possibly he was a barbarian. It would be almost a pleasure to kill a Frank, say. In any case, a fair fight which Gratillonius had not provoked was not butchery. As always, he did not dwell on the possibility that he might lose. To do so would merely weaken him.
The road bent east, under sere hills, and the Wood of the King loomed ahead. The gale had torn off nearly all the leaves that earlier turned it bronze. Now trunks and boughs were winter-gray, though shadows still made a cave of the depths beneath them. Twigs clawed at the sky. Timber creaked. Wind eddied about, wailed and mumbled.
Half a dozen more marines had reached the courtyard of the Shield and Hammer. They saluted the King. Tethered nearby stood their horses, and leashed hounds whined impatient. If either contestant fled, he would be hunted down and brought back for the death stroke.
Red-robed, Soren emerged from the blood-colored house when an attendant called. He had been delayed by no need to equip himself; his was only to lead the ceremonies, before and after. “In the holy name of Taranis, greeting, King of Ys,” he said.
For the sake of Dahut, Bodilis, Rome, Gratillonius bent his helmeted head to the God he abhorred. Mithras would understand.
“The challenger has chosen his weapons and is prepared,” Soren said. Nothing in his heavy visage bespoke how he wished the combat would go. He was the instrument of Taranis. Turning, he cried: “Come forth, O you who would be King of Ys!”
A wiry, long-legged young man stepped from the gloom within, onto the porch and down the stairs. His movements were quick, suggestive of tension, but there was no hesitancy in them. A forked black beard, well trimmed, decorated clear features marred by poor teeth and a scar puckering the right cheek to pull that corner of his mouth into the hint of a sneer. From the outfits available he had chosen a nose-guarded helmet, knee-length
chainmail coat, thick cross-garters over the breeches to protect calves, small round shield, long Gallic sword in a sheath, a javelin in his free hand. Plainly, he meant to make the best of agility against a larger opponent.
Plainly, too, he was not fatigued as Adminius had predicted. Springiness was in his gait and clarity in the green eyes. Browned skin gave a clue. This was an outdoorsman, skillful to contrive shelter and sleep soundly on the wildest of nights. He would be dangerous as a panther; and well he knew it.
He approached across the flagstones, peered, and halted. In Redonic-accented Latin he cried, “Are you the King? But you’re the centurion!”
And Gratillonius knew him. “Rufinus!” Rufinus, leader of those Bacaudae whom the legionaries had driven from their prey on the road to Juliomagus—
The young man lifted spear and shield. Laughter whooped from him. “Why, you rascal, you never told me! I’d not’ve bucked you elsewise. Better to’ve asked for a place in your command, hey?” He sobered, apart from a savage grin. “Too late now, I suppose. Right? Pity.”
“What’s this?” Soren demanded. “Know you each other?”
“We’ve met,” said Gratillonius. A knot formed in his guts. “He’ll withdraw his challenge if I ask.”
“Impossible, as well you remember,” said the Speaker for Taranis. “Let us pray.”
Rufinus glided close to Gratillonius. The smile kept flickering as he murmured. “I’m sorry, Centurion, truly I am. You’re a decent sort, I think. But you should’ve told me, that night in your tent.”
They knelt at the royal oak. Soren signed them both with holy water and invoked the Father God. Wind boomed. A raven flew low overhead.
“We go off by ourselves,” Gratillonius said bluntly.
Rufinus nodded. “They’ve explained.”
Side by side, the two men pushed through snickering underbrush to the opening, out of sight from the house, where Gratillonius had killed Hornach and Colconor. Strange that underfoot were rain-sodden leaves and humus; this earth should be gory red.
His mood had not caused him to lose wariness. However, Rufinus attempted no sneak attack, simply leaned on his spear and sighed, “This is too bad. It really is.”
“What made you come?” Gratillonius wondered.
Rufinus barked laughter. “I wish I could say a mischievous God, but it was just chance—and myself—though it did seem, one midnight, moonlight hour, that stag-horned Cernunnos danced His madman’s dance before me, to egg me on…. Well,” he proceeded in a level tone, “you roadpounders gave us brethren a nasty setback, you know. Not just our dead and wounded. You hit our spirits in the balls, and we skulked about for a long spell, living more off roots and voles than plunder and, hm, donations. My standing as duke was in danger, not that it meant much anymore. Bit by bit, I rallied the boys, we got new recruits, till at last I had the makings of a fresh band. What it needed next—you’ll know what I mean—what it needed was a blooding, to prove itself to itself.
“Then the news ran this summer, civil war begun again and the Emperor marched off south with his army. I remembered Sicorus. Do you? My landmaster, who debased my sister till she died whelping his get.” Fury went like lightning over the face and through the voice, and vanished as swiftly. “We all had things to avenge on Sicorus. The upshot was, one night we came and ringed Maedraeacum manor house in. We let women, children, harmless slaves go out, free; I told the boys that whoever touched them in anything but helpfulness would answer to my knife. Then we pushed Sicorus’s overseers in to join him, and set fire to the building. That damaged the loot, of course, but next day we still picked a grand amount of gold and silver from the ashes.”
Rufinus sighed once more, shrugged, and finished. “My mistake. I reckoned the Empire would be too busy with its own woes for doing much about this. That’s how it was in past civil wars. But it turns out Emperor Maximus had driven his enemies before him right handily. The Roman—the Armorican Duke, is that what they call him? My fellow duke—I reckon he decided he could spare the troops to make an example of us. They scoured the woods for a month or more. Most of my Valiant are dead, the rest are fled. Me, I remembered a centurion who reminded me about wonderful Ys, and decided I’d scant to lose. So here we are, Gratillonius.”
Wind brawled, swirled under armor, made the Wood groan. Gratillonius said slowly: “Too late, you thought of asking me for a berth in my service. How could I give you any, after what you did?”
“At Maedraeacum?” answered pride and reason. “Had I no right to bring Ita’s ghost peace? Every ghost that Sicorus squeezed out of life? Hasn’t Rome made friends of her foes, like you Britons or us Gauls? I could serve you well, King. I’m a good man of my hands. And… My own Bacaudae may be gone, but I know many more, up and down the valleys and off in the hills. Outlaws, but they could be useful scouts, messengers, irregular fighters, for a King who showed them a little kindness.”
Gratillonius realized he must not listen. “Try that if you overcome me,” he said. “But remember that Rome is the Mother of us all. And be gentle to the Nine Queens and—and their children.”
For the first time, he saw complete calm on Rufinus. It was eerily like the peace he himself had felt this dawn after he and Bodilis made love. The wanderer traced a sign with his spear, in the wind. “I promise,” he said low.
Thereupon he dropped into a feline crouch and asked, “Shall we have at it, friend?”
“We must,” said Gratillonius.
They circled about the glade. Wind keened; the raven, settled on an unrestful bough, croaked hoarsely; fallen leaves squelped. Rufinus moved his buckler to and fro while his arm stayed cocked, ready to cast the javelin. Gratillonius kept his big Roman shield in place and squinted across its upper edge, the sword poised in his right hand.
Glances met and held fast. It was always a peculiar feeling to look into the eyes of a foeman, not unlike looking into those of a woman in bed, an ultimate intimacy.
They stalked, he and Rufinus, each in search of an opening. Now and then the Gaul made tentative movements of his spear. Gratillonius remained stolid. The wind blew.
Abruptly Rufinus cast. Immediately he snatched for the sword scabbard across his back, and charged.
The Roman missile should have sunk its iron head into the Roman shield and hung there, its shaft dragging in the earth. Gratillonius was ready for it. His blade flipped it aside. It spent its malice in a rotten log. Rufinus was upon him. The Gallic sword crashed down. Gratillonius shifted his shield enough to catch the blow. His own weapon snaked forward. Rufinus sprang back. Blood from his left thigh darkened that trouser leg.
He’s mine, Gratillonius knew. But let it be quick. Let it be merciful.
Rufinus gave him a wry grin and, again, circled, alert for a chance to pounce. Man for man, outlaw and centurion should be equal. It was not individual Romans but the Roman army that had broken the Gauls. Rufinus, though, had taken a wound not mortal but deep; and whatever carnivore skills he had picked up, he was untrained in the science of killing.
Gratillonius let him attack, over and over, wear himself down, retreat with more blood running out of him. Two or three times he got through the defense, but the injuries that the hare inflicted on the tortoise were minor slashes.
The end came all at once. Gratillonius maneuvered Rufinus up against a thicket, which blocked retreat. Rufinus hewed. By that time the long sword was weakly held. Through the wind, Gratillonius heard how Rufinus panted, while blood soaked his breeches and footsteps. Gratillonius’s shield stopped another blow. His short, thick blade knocked the weapon from his opponent’s grasp.
A moment Rufinus stared, until his laughter cried out. “Good work, soldier!” He spread his arms, while he swayed on his feet. “Come, what’re you waiting for? Here I am.”
Gratillonius found he could not move.
“Come, come,” Rufinus raved. “I’m ready. I’d’ve done for you if I could.”
“Pick up your sword,” Gratillonius heard himse
lf say.
Rufinus shook his head. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he crowed. “I bear you no ill will, buddy. You won, fair and square. But be damned if I’ll let you pretend—Roman—you’re still in a fight. Make your offering.”
To Taranis, Who deigned to be Colconor. And Lir had slain Dahilis.
“Are you playing games with me?” Gratillonius brought forth.
“No,” said Rufinus, feebly now as the loss of blood swept him further along. He staggered. “I only… want you… to stop playing games with yourself… and whatever Gods are yours, Roman.”
He lurched, sank to hands and knees, crouched gasping.
Mithras forbade human sacrifice.
It was as if Bodilis were suddenly there in the wind and the wet, Bodilis whom Gratillonius would seek back to as soon as he was able. Not losing time in cleaning it, he sheathed his sword. “I cannot kill you, helpless,” he said, dimly amazed at his own steadiness. “Nor can I let you lie there. Not if you surrender to me, altogether. Do you understand? I think I can save you if you’ll declare yourself my slave, Rufinus.”
“I could have worse masters,” muttered back around the reborn grin.
Gratillonius knelt and set about stanching the wounds of his man.
5
Throughout the years, Soren Cartagi and Lanarvilis the Queen had held many a private meeting. None was as grim as this.
The gale had died away, but seas still crashed against the wall and gate of Ys, spume flying higher than the battlements. Their sound went undergroundishly through the whole city, as if earth responded to that anger. Starless dark engulfed heaven, save for what towertop windows glimmered alone. Lights and luxury in the room where Lanarvilis received her visitor could not really stave off night.
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