Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  Outrage erupted. Hannon Baltisi, Lir Captain, roared that never would men of Ys serve under such masters, Christian dogs who would forbid their worship, who did not even ask the God’s pardon before emptying a slop jar into His sea. Cothortin Rosmertai, Lord of Works, protested that such a program would disrupt plans, dishonor commitments to build merchantmen; in this time of prosperity, the facilities were bespoken far in advance. Bomatin Kusuri, Mariner Councillor, questioned where enough sailors could be found, when trading, whaling, slaving, even fishing paid better than armed service in the Empire did.

  Adruval Tyri, Sea Lord, maintained that the King was right about the menace of Scoti and Saxons. They would not be content to rape Britannia but would seek back to the coasts of Gallia. Yet Adruval hated the thought of turning Ysan ships over to Rome. What did Rome do for Armorica other than suck it dry? Would it not be better to build strength at home—quietly, of course—until Ys could tell Rome to do its worst?

  Soren Cartagi, Speaker for Taranis, was also a voice for the Great Houses when he said, first, that to help the Christians thus was to speed the day when they came to impose their God by force; second, the cost would be more than the city could bear or the people would suffer; third, Gratillonius must remember that he was the King of a sovereign nation, not the proconsul of a servile province.

  Queen Lanarvilis, who at this session was the leader of the Gallicenae, pointed out needs at home which the treasure and labor could serve. And was there indeed any threat in the future with which existing forces could not cope, as they had coped in the past? Had not the Romans now quelled their enemies and secured Britannia? Also in the South, she understood, peace prevailed; Stilicho and Alaric the Visigoth had ended their strife and come to terms. Rather than looking ahead with fear, she saw a sun of hopefulness rising.

  Opposition to Gratillonius’s desire coalesced around those two persons. When the meeting adjourned after stormy hours, he drew them aside and asked that they accompany him to the palace for a confidential talk.

  In the atrium there, he grinned wearily and said, “First I wish a quick bath and a change into garb more comfortable than this. Would you care for the same?”

  Soren and Lanarvilis exchanged a look. “Nay,” the man growled. “Well seek straight to the secretorium and… marshal our thoughts.”

  “Debate grew too heated,” the woman added in haste. “You’ve brought us hither that we may reason with one another, not so? Let us therefore make sure of our intents.”

  Gratillonius regarded them for a silent moment. Tall she stood in her blue gown and white headdress, but her haunches seemed heavier of late, while her shoulders were hunched above a shrunken bosom. That brought her neck forward like a turtle’s; the green eyes blinked and peered out of sallowness which sagged. He knew how faded her blond hair was. Withal, she had lost little vigor and none of her grasp of events.

  Soren had put on much weight in the last few years; his belly strained the red robe and distorted its gold embroidery. The chest on which the Wheel amulet hung remained massive. His hair and beard were full of gray; having taken off his miter, he displayed a bald spot. Yet he was no less formidable than erstwhile.

  Sadness tugged at Gratillonius. “As you will,” he said. “I’ll have refreshments sent up, and order us a supper. We do have need to stay friends.”

  —When he opened the door of the upstairs room, he saw them in facing chairs, knee against knee, hands linked. Taken by surprise, they started and drew apart. He pretended he had not noticed. “Well,” he said, “I’m ready for a stoup of that wine. Council-wrangling is thirsty work.” He strode to the serving table, mixed himself a strong beakerful, and took a draught before turning about to confront them.

  Soren’s broad countenance was helmeted with defiance. Lanarvilis sat still, hands now crossed in her lap, but Gratillonius had learned over the years to read distress when it lay beneath her face.

  He stayed on his feet, merely because in spite of the hot bath he felt too taut for anything else. The light of candles threw multiple shadows to make him stand forth, for dusk filled the window of the chamber and dimmed the pastoral frescoes, as if to deny that such peacefulness was real.

  “Let me speak plainly,” he began. “Clear ’tis to see, I hope to win you over, so you’ll support my proposal tomorrow. That’ll be difficult for you after today, because I put you on your honor not to reveal certain things I’m about to tell you.”

  “Why should we make that pledge?” Soren demanded.

  “Pray patience,” Lanarvilis requested gently. To Gratillonius: “Ere you give out this information, can you tell us what its nature is?”

  “My reasons for believing the barbarian ebb has turned, and in years to come will flood upon us. Already this year, seaborne Saxons occupied Corbilo at the mouth of the Liger. They’re bringing kinfolk from their homeland to join them.”

  “I know,” Soren snapped. “They are laeti.”

  “Like the Franks in Armorica,” Gratillonius retorted. “Rome had small choice in the matter. I mentioned it for what it bodes. There is worse to relate. The reason why I ask for your silence about it is that if word gets loose as to what my sources are, it could be fatal to them.”

  “Indeed?” answered Soren skeptically. “I know you worry yourself about the northern Scoti, and doubtless you’ve been wise to keep track of them, but naught has happened aside from some piracy along the Britannic shores, nor does it seem that aught else will.”

  Gratillonius shook his head. “You’re mistaken. I’ve nurtured relations with the tribes in southern Hivernia for more cause than improving trade. ’Tis a listening post. My informants and… outright spies would be in grave trouble, if it become known what regular use I have made of them. Yonder King Conual of the rising star, he has no hostility of his own toward us; but he is a sworn friend of northerly King Niall. The two wouldn’t likely make alliance against Rome or Ys, but neither will wittingly betray the other. Now you may remember my telling you what I found out a while back, that Niall led the reaving fleet which we destroyed.”

  Soren thought. “I seem to recall. What does it matter?”

  “He is no petty warlord. I’ve discovered that he was the mastermind behind the great onslaught on the Roman Wall, sixteen years ago. Since then, and the disaster he suffered here, he’s warred widely in his island. The latest news I’ve received makes me sure that this is the year when he intends to complete and consolidate his conquests there. After that—what? I expect he will look further. And… he has never forgotten what Ys did to him. He has vowed revenge.”

  Soren scowled and tugged his beard. Lanarvilis ventured: “Can he ever master naval strength to match ours? Besides a few crude galleys, what have the Scoti other than leather boats? Where is their discipline, their coordinated command?”

  Gratillonius sighed. “My dear,” he told her—and saw how she almost imperceptibly winced—“like too many people, you’re prone to suppose that because barbarians are ignorant of some things we know, they must be stupid. Niall will bide his chance. What he may devise, I cannot foresee, but best would be if we kept him always discouraged. I’m sending my man Rufinus back to Hivernia this summer. His mission will be to learn as much about what is going on as he can; and he’s a wily one, you know. If he can do Niall a mischief, so much the better. You’ll both understand that this is among those matters whereof you must keep silence.”

  She nodded.

  “Aye,” Soren agreed reluctantly, “but you’ve not shown us that Ys will have need of more navy, let alone that she turn it over to Rome.”

  Gratillonius drew breath. “What I have to tell you will become generally known in the course of time,” he said. “However, by then the hour may be late for us. I’ve had passed on to me things that are still supposed to be state secrets. If we act on them, we must pretend we are acting on our own initiative. Else my sources will likely be cut off, and the heads of some among them, too.”

  Soren gave him a shre
wd glance. “Apuleius Vero?”

  “Among others. He wishes Ys well. Have I your silence?”

  Soren hesitated an instant. “Aye,” he said; and: “You know I am faithful, Grallon,” said Lanarvilis.

  The King took another long draught before he gripped the beaker tight, as if it were a handhold on the brink of a cliff, and told them:

  “Very well. The peace between Stilicho and Alaric is patchwork. It cannot last. Stilicho made it out of necessity. Trouble is brewing in Africa and he must protect his back as best he can while he tries to deal with that. He’s terminating the campaign in Britannia not because the diocese has been secured but because he needs the troops in the South. He wants them as much for protection against the Eastern Empire as against any barbarians. Meanwhile Alaric and his kind wait only to see which of the two Romes they can best attack first. Stilicho is fully aware of that. He expects that within the next several years he must begin calling in more soldiers from the frontiers. Britannia, in particular, may be denuded of defenders.”

  Shocked, Lanarvilis whispered, “Are you certain?”

  Gratillonius jerked a nod. “Most of what I’ve said is plain enough, once you’ve given a little thought to the situation. Some of it, such as the African matter or the expectation of transferring legions—those are buried in letters to high officials. Lower officials who found ways to read them have sent the word along a network they’ve woven for the sake of their own survival; and one or two have passed it on to me. However, all in all, is it such a vast surprise? Is it not more or less what we could have foreseen for ourselves?”

  She shivered. Soren grimaced.

  Gratillonius pursued: “Think ahead, on behalf of our children and grandchildren. If Rome collapses, Scoti and Saxons will swarm into Britannia, Franks and their kin into Gallia. They’ll breed like cockroaches. Here is Armorica, thinly peopled, thinly guarded. At this lonely tip of the peninsula, how long can Ys by herself hold out?”

  Stillness took over the room. Night deepened in its window. The candle flames guttered.

  Lanarvilis mumbled at last, her head bowed, “Tours is a grim word. I should see what documents you have, but—aye, belike we’d better think how I can change my stance tomorrow.”

  Soren’s fist thudded on the arm of his chair. “You’d give the ships to Rome, though!” he exclaimed. “To Rome!”

  “How else dare we build them at all?” Gratillonius replied, flat-voiced. “This is another warning I have from underground. Boy-Emperor Honorius starves for some way to assert himself. His guardian Stilicho is willing to indulge him, if the undertaking be such as Rome can afford. Indeed, Stilicho too would be glad of any accomplishment that impresses the West, the East, and the barbarians alike. To suppress a ‘rebellion’ in Ys would be easier than to dislodge the heathen Saxons in Corbilo. Nay, we must give no grounds for accusations against us, but keep ourselves too useful to Rome for it to make a sacrificial animal of us.”

  Soren cursed.

  —He left directly after supper. “We’ve talked enough,” he said. “Best I go home now.” Gratillonius gave him a glance. The King had dispatched a messenger early on to inform Soren’s wife that he would be absent this evening. “I want… to sleep on this.” Gruffly: “Oh, I’ll hew to my word. Tomorrow I’ll urge that the Council consider your proposal more carefully, look into ways and means. But I must devise the right phrases, the more so after what position I took today, eh? Also, remember I’m not sure yet of your lightness, only sure that I disbelieve we’ve need of everything you want. However, goodnight, Grallon.”

  He took Lanarvilis’s hand and bent slightly above the veins that lumped blue in it. “Rest you well, my lady,” he said low. Releasing her, he stumped fast across the mosaic floor of the atrium to the exit. A servant scurried to let him out and hail a boy to light his way with a lantern.

  “Good dreams to you, Soren,” Lanarvilis had breathed after him.

  These had been useful hours, Gratillonius thought, and the meal at the end was amicable. He had won about as much agreement as he had hoped. Next came further maneuvers, bargainings, compromises…. He might finally get half what he asked for, which was why he asked for as much as he did…. With luck, work might commence year after next, which was why he began asking this early…. Aye, time has made this bluff soldier into a very politician, he thought; and realized he had thought in Ysan.

  He turned his gaze back to Lanarvilis. Time was being less kind to her, he mused. But then, she was a dozen years older than he.

  “Wish you likewise to leave?” he dropped into a silence that felt suddenly lengthy. “I’ll summon an escort.”

  “Are you weary?” she replied.

  “Nay. Belike my sleep’ll be scant. If you care to talk further, I’d—I have always valued your counsel, Lanarvilis.”

  “Whether or not I agreed with you?”

  “Mayhap most when you disagreed. How else shall I learn?”

  She smiled the least bit. “There speaks our Gratillonius. Not that argument has ever swayed him far off his forechosen path.” She wiped her brow. “’Tis warm in here. Might we go outside for a span?”

  He understood. Sweats came upon her without warning, melancholy, cramps; her courses had become irregular; the Goddess led her toward the last of womankind’s Three Crossroads. “Surely. We’re fortunate that the weather’s mild.”

  They went forth, side by side. Soren had not actually required a lantern, for a full moon was up. When that happened on a quarter day, the King lawfully absented himself from his monthly stay in the Wood. Light fell ashen-bright on the paths that twisted through the walled garden, between hedges, topiaries, flowerbeds, bowers. At this season they were mostly bare; limbs and twigs threw an intricacy of shadows. The air was quiescent, with a hint of frost. Crushed shell scrunched softly underfoot.

  How often he had wandered like this, with one or another of his women, since that springtime when first he did with Dahilis.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked presently.

  “Aye, thank you,” said Lanarvilis.

  “Ah, how fares Julia?”

  “Well. Happy in her novitiate.” Abrupt bitterness: “Why do you ask?”

  Taken aback, he could merely say, “Why, I wanted to know. My daughter that you bore me—”

  “You could have met with her occasionally. ’Twould have made her happy.”

  “Nay, now, she’s a sweet girl. If only I had the time to spare—for her, for all my girls.”

  “You have it for Dahut.”

  That stung. He halted. She would have gone on, but he caught her arm. They faced each other in the moonlight.

  “Well you know, Dahut suffered a loss she cannot even talk about,” he rasped. “She’s needed help to heal her sorrow. I’ve provided what poor distractions I could think of, in what few hours I could steal from the hundreds of folk who clamor after me.”

  “She’s had well-nigh a year to recover, and been amply blithe during most of it.” Lanarvilis yielded. She looked off into the dark. “Well, let’s not quarrel. She is the child of Dahilis, and we Sisters love her too.”

  Her tone plucked at him. He took her hands. They felt cold in his. “You are a good person, Lanarvilis,” he said clumsily.

  “One tries,” she sighed. “You do yourself.”

  Impulse: “Would you like to spend the night here?”

  How long since they had last shared a bed? More than a year. As much as two? He realized in a rush what small heed he had paid to the matter. He would simply hear from another of the Nine that Lanarvilis was giving up her turn with him. That happened from time to time with any of them, for any of numerous causes. They decided it among themselves and quietly informed him. When he did call at the house of Lanarvilis, they would dine and talk, but she gave him to understand that she felt indisposed. He agreed without disappointment. Return to the palace and a night alone had its own welcome qualities, unless he elected to go rouse someone else. Guilvilis was always delighte
d to please him, Maldunilis willing, Forsquilis and Tambilis usually downright eager.

  Her gaze and her voice held level. “Do you wish me to?”

  “Well, we did intend speaking further of this statecraft business, and, and you are beautiful.” He did not altogether lie, seeing her by moonlight.

  She blinked at tears, brushed lips over his, and murmured, “Aye, let us once again.”

  —They had left the window unshuttered, undraped. Moonlight mottled rumpled bedclothes and unclothed bodies.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I hoped ’twould give you pleasure.”

  “I hoped so too,” she answered. “’Twas not your fault.”

  He had, in fact, tried for some time to rouse her, until the Bull broke free of restraint and worked Its will. Her continued dryness had made the act painful to her.

  “We’ve had a troublous day,” he said. “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Nay, better we sleep as late as we can. That meeting will be contentious.”

  “Nonetheless—”

  “Confess we it to ourselves and the Gods, I have grown old.”

  Bodilis is just a year or two younger! speared through him. She would be glad of me!

  It was as if an outside voice came: “Would you feel otherwise with Soren?”

  Lanarvilis gasped and sat bolt upright. “What do you ask?”

  “Naught, naught,” he said, immediately regretful. “You are right, we should go to sleep.”

  He recognized the steel: “Do you dare imagine… he and I… would commit sacrilege?”

  “Nay, never, certainly never.” Gratillonius sat up also, drew breath, laid a hand on her shoulder. “I should have kept silence. I did for many years. But I do see and hear better than you seem to suppose. There is love between you twain.”

  She stared at him through the moon-tinged dark.

  He smiled lopsidedly. “Why should I resent it? The Gods sealed your fate ere ever I reached Ys. You have been loyal. That’s as much as a centurion can ask.”

  “You can still surprise me,” she said as if talking in dreams.