Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  “Oh, but she was so beautiful. I went back to my house and—and lay awake in the dark, hour by hour, till—”

  “And ye’d forsworn any relief. I said already, your Christ’s an unreasonable God.”

  “Nay, His reward f-f-for faithful service is infinite.”

  “Hm? Ah, well, whatever ye mean by that, let’s neither of us preach. I’ll stand by my Gods, like I will by my King and my friends, as long as They stand by me.”

  “Have They that?” Budic cried. “What do They bring but horror? Think of Dahut, think of Gratillonius!”

  “True, They’re offtimes stern, even grim, but so’s the world. ’Tis for us to endure without whining. They give us life.”

  Budic sprang up. “They do not!” he screamed. “They are blood-drinking demons! The one thing They give you is your doom!”

  Maeloch rose more slowly. His huge hand clenched on the Briton’s tunic. “Now that’s aplenty,” he growled. “I’d liefer nay deck ye, boy. Best ye just go. But ask yourself this—when Lir sends fair winds and shoals o’ fish, Taranis pours down sunlight and summer rain, Belisama brings love and bairns and hope—ask yourself, boy, what’s this Christ o’ yours ever done for ye?”

  He let go and shoved. Budic staggered back against a wall. There he leaned for a minute, agape, as if the unspeakable had at last found words.

  2

  Scarcely past full, the moon slanted whiteness through windowpanes, down onto Carsa’s bed. Dahut raised herself to a sitting position, rising from the blankets like a mermaid from the sea. Moonlight silvered her hair, face, breasts; it made mercury pools of her eyes; but the crescent of the Goddess showed as black as the shadows everywhere around. The young man looked up in adoration.

  She sighed. “We must speak seriously,” she told him. Her breath was a wraith in the chill.

  He smiled and stroked her flank. “This soon?”

  “We’re belated as ’tis. Three nights together—No matter I go to and fro in the dark, cloaked, hooded, veiled. Folk—servants chatter—they’ll soon find that none of them knows where I’ve been, and they’ll wonder, and… Rufinus is gone, but others can spy on me.”

  He grew grave. “I know. I’ve thought about little else, save you yourself and my love of you. Tomorrow I’ll broach the plan I’ve made.”

  “Now,” she insisted. “The danger is too nigh us both. Either we act at once or you must depart Ys at once, never to return. Else we die. If I left with you, they’d track us down.”

  He tensed. “I meant to lead you carefully toward my thought. ’Twill be hard for you.”

  “I know it already.” Her voice was level. “You shall challenge the King and slay him.”

  He started, then likewise raised himself. “Your father,” he breathed.

  She spread her palms. “My husband, unless you prevent.” Her lips trembled. “His will is cracking. Tambilis tells me this, the last Queen who shares his couch. She wishes me well, but she wants the marriage. They all do.”

  “You too?” he asked. His tone came raw.

  “I did at first. But now you—And, oh, Carsa, beloved!” She caught his near hand in both hers. “You believe me, you know I was a maiden, though I did not bleed. But he? And Carsa, I love you.”

  He snarled. “I swore unto God I’d avenge the abomination, did it happen. Better I strike him down first. I will.”

  “My Carsa!” She strained against him. The kiss was long and savage.

  When they had separated and hearts had quieted a little, her manner turned anxious. “He is a fearsome fighter, a killing machine.”

  The Burdigalan nodded. “He is. But I’ll be no lamb to the slaughter. Let me confess it, I’ve thought about this, imagined it, ever since the curse fell on you. I’ll be shrewder than to meet him on terms where he holds every advantage. Also, his earlier foes were pagan—poor Tommaltach—while I’m a Christian. God will be with me.”

  “I’ve fretted over that. How can a man of your faith be King of Ys?”

  “I’ve considered this too.” He laughed uneasily. “Have no fears. I’ve not confided in the chorepiscopus. He’ll be shocked, he’ll upbraid and belike excommunicate me. Still, I am only a catechumen. And I trust that I can make him see reason. Surely saving you from a union that God forbids will be a worthy deed in His eyes. If He spares me thereafter, I as King—I, wholly Roman—will earn full redemption by leading Ys step by step toward righteousness and Christ.” He brought his cheek next to hers. “You first, my darling?”

  “Well see,” she said under her breath. Aloud: “Oh, Carsa, the wonder of it! Now we have the night free before us!”

  3

  For an instant Gratillonius hesitated. Summoning courage, he laid hold the serpent knocker on Lanarvilis’s door and struck it against the plate. While he waited for response—the time was short but felt long—he twitched his cloak tighter around his plain tunic. The morning was bleak though bright. Mainly, however, he needed something to do.

  The door opened. Into the startlement of the woman who recognized him, he said mildly, “I’d fain call on my daughter, the Princess Julia.”

  “Oh—my lord, she—”

  “She is home today, free of duties. I know.” Gratillonius went into the house.

  “I w-w-will tell her, my lord.” The servant scuttled away.

  Presently Julia came into the lavish atrium. Even on her free days, she wore vestal white: a plump girl of fifteen with light-brown hair and something of his mother in her features, his mother whose name she bore.

  She stopped and saluted him, an awkward gesture. “Welcome, sir.” The wariness in her stabbed him.

  He ventured a smile. “I wished to congratulate you, my dear,” he said; he had rehearsed it in his mind, over and over. “I heard how you won first examination honors in Queen Bodilis’s Latin class, and I’m very proud of you.” From beneath his cloak, which no one had offered to take, he brought a cedarwood box he had made himself. He had given it all the care and skill that were his, hoping for an hour such as this. “Here’s a little token for you.”

  Julia took it without contact of hands and pulled the lid back. The fragrance of the wood drifted forth. “Oh!” she exclaimed, suddenly large-eyed. Within rested a penannular brooch, silver around twin great topazes. “Oh, father, ’tis beautiful.”

  Gratillonius’s smile widened and eased. “Wear it in joy,” he said. “And would you care for a celebration at the palace? Naught solemn, no relics like me, simply whatever friends you invite.”

  “Father, you—”

  “What is this?” They both turned toward the new voice. Lanarvilis entered from the direction of her private room.

  “You,” she said flatly, and halted in the middle of the floor.

  Gratillonius looked her up and down, from crimped ashen hair to pearl-studded sandals. She had covered her height with a gown of rich russet on which embroidered dragons twined; an amber necklace encircled the wrinkliness at the base of her throat but not the stringiness above; tortoiseshell bracelets drew attention to the brown spots that were appearing on her hands. Yet she was not ugly, he thought. He might well have been nearly unaware of the hoofmarks of time, as he was whenever he saw Bodilis. It was that she had become a stranger.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’d no intention of slighting you. I knew not you were present.”

  “Nay, you chose your time,” Lanarvilis answered. “It happened that Innilis and I traded vigils on Sena, because she felt her courses soon to come on her and they’ve lately been making her miserable. You’d never know about that, nor care.”

  “I would. But who tells me?” He put down his temper. “We should not quarrel, my lady. I came in friendship.”

  Friendship of the kind you and I once had, his mind went on, unheard by her. We worked well together, for Ys. It felt good, being members of a good team. And then in bed—oh, we were never in love, either of us. Our hearts were elsewhere. But there were times, again and again, when we surrendered alto
gether to each other; and between us we created this girl here, and loved her and reared her. How can we now be hostile?

  How can it be that I myself, in my inmost soul, care so little, except that it’s desirable we stop being hostile?

  “He, he gave me this,” Julia said. “Because of my examination. And a feast—”

  “And what else?” Lanarvilis asked Gratillonius. “The sign has not come upon my daughter.”

  He fought against rage.

  His wife shrugged. “Well, best we refrain from open breaches,” she said. “We remain yoked to the same load. But, nay, Julia, dear, we shall not cross his threshold until he has granted your Sister her due and the Gods Theirs.”

  The girl swallowed, blinked, clutched the box to her breast, and fled.

  Gratillonius and Lanarvilis stood silent a minute. Finally he said, “Ill is this.”

  “It is indeed,” she replied.

  “’Tis not only that you and I and most of the others are divided. The Gallicenae are. Often Tambilis weeps because of the coldness she’s met from her Sisters.”

  “She can mend her ways. You can yours.”

  “You know that is impossible. Why will you not help me find something we can all accept? The new Age, Dahut the first Queen who’s truly free—”

  “Go,” she said.

  He obeyed.

  —Cynan was in the guard at the palace gate. His military correctness fell from him when he saw his centurion. He stepped forward. “Sir,” he declared unevenly, “we’ve just gotten the word. Another challenger down at the damned Wood.”

  4

  The moment he saw Carsa in the Sacred Precinct, Gratillonius understood that this day he might well die.

  The young man was barefoot, his sturdy frame clad merely in a woolen tunic with a belt where a large knife such as seamen used was sheathed. Stuck beneath the leather was a short staff with a leather strap and attached cord depending from it. In his left hand he gripped a wooden buckler. In his right was a simple sling. A band across his left shoulder supported a bulging, wide-mouthed pouch. It seemed scant equipment against a full-armored Roman centurion, but Gratillonius knew what those weapons could do.

  Though Carsa’s mouth and nostrils were pinched tight, his visage showed no traces of sleeplessness and he stood at catlike ease. How old was he—eighteen, nineteen? Even unencumbered by mail, a man of forty-two could never come near matching him for speed and suppleness; and strength rippled through the nude limbs.

  Gratillonius withdrew to that room in the right-hand building where he outfitted himself. As ever, he declined assistance. It could be his last time alone. He had given Adminius the usual orders (“If he wins, he’s King and none of you are to stir against him.”) and wanted no further scenes. He had actually hastened off and accepted battle immediately, when he could at least have said farewell to Tambilis, Bodilis, whomever liked him. Better to wait in the hall, among the idols, while the marines formed their barrier across Processional Way and Soren led the houndsmen here.

  Underpadding, kilt, greaves, mail, helmet—sword, dagger, big oblong shield, and this time a heavy javelin—“Mithras, hearten me; and should I fall, pardon me my sins, release my spirit, at the end of my Pilgrimage receive me.”—The words felt empty, as if the God were gone.

  When he came out, air bit at what skin was exposed. The sun hung wan, already far down toward Ghost Quay, making shadows long; somewhere a raven croaked. Gratillonius was more aware of that than he was of the ritual Soren conducted. The Speaker went through the words in a monotone and refrained from any remarks after he finished. Gratillonius looked past him.

  King and enemy went in beneath the trees. Twigs made splintery patterns across heaven. What brush there grew was also mostly bare. It crackled at a touch. Fallen leaves rustled louder.

  Gratillonius did not seek the glade. No such requirement was on him. He followed traces he knew after these many years, to a place where several half-grown trees made the ground thick and tricky in among the giant oldsters. Halting, turning, he said, “Here we are.”

  “I expected you’d pick a site like this,” Carsa replied in the same Latin.

  Gratillonius kept his voice equally cool. “Before we begin—I’m curious—why are you doing this? You had your entire life ahead of you.”

  “I do yet. The wickedness of Ys is an offense to the Lord. Time to end it.”

  “Will you, then, lead sacrifices to Taranis and marry the nine high priestesses of Belisama? I thought you were a Christian.”

  Carsa whitened. “Let’s go!” he yelled.

  Gratillonius nodded and hefted his javelin.

  It was no surprise that Carsa bounded agilely backward. He needed room. Gratillonius abided. If he threw his spear at once, Carsa could likely evade it.

  The Burdigalan stopped. Already loaded, its pouch between fingers, the sling snaked free. Carsa’s upper body swayed, to put his weight behind the double-pointed lead bullet. His wrist snapped. There was a whipcrack noise. Simultaneously, Gratillonius cast.

  The impact of the slug, slantwise from his left, dug it into the thick plywood of his shield. He nearly lost the handgrip. The strap jerked violently against his shoulder. Tears sprang forth. Though their blur he saw the javelin strike the buckler. He’d hoped it would pierce flesh, but Carsa had followed the slower missile in flight. With the swiftness of youth, he’d moved his defense to intercept.

  Nevertheless, the iron had gone deep, the shaft dragged, the buckler had become a burden. Carsa dropped it. Gratillonius drew sword and charged.

  He’d realized that the whole purpose had been to make him spend his distance weapon. Without it, he could only fight at close quarters. A slinger needed time to reload though, whole chunks of a minute for each shot, time wherein a legionary could cover a fair amount of ground.

  The sling snapped again. Gratillonius felt a glancing impact down around his right ankle. It hurt. The greave fended off the worst of it. He crouched low and dodged a bit, back and forth, as he attacked. If a bullet took him between helmet and shield rim, in the face, that was that. A broken foot would be as final, if slower; Carsa need just stand away and bombard him. His shield took another blow, but straight on, merely lancing pain through his knuckles.

  Then he was there, but of course Carsa wasn’t. The youth had slipped off to one side. Gratillonius saw him behind a screen of saplings and withes. Carsa grinned. While he couldn’t well shoot past such a barricade, he could wave his sling tauntingly.

  Gratillonius refused the bait. He’d wear himself out pushing through that stuff. He started around it, deliberately, taking his time. Carsa poised. When the chance came, he sent a projectile whizzing. Gratillonius blocked it, too, and advanced, step by easy step. Carsa retreated.

  A while they stalked each other among the boles. A slug missed. Gratillonius heard it buzz past. He thought in a distant part of his mind: This is interesting. Can he run me out of wind and legs before I run him out of ammunition? Well, go slow, old son. Play him till nightfall if you can; then the game ought to be yours.

  Sunlight still touched upper branches, but shadows beneath were turning into murk.

  Abruptly Carsa saw a tree that suited him. He leaped, caught a branch, swarmed sailor-nimble aloft. Planting himself ten feet high, where a broad limb stretched nearly right-angled from the trunk, he draped his simple sling over it and from his belt drew the companion piece.

  Gratillonius halted. Carsa crowed laughter: “You must not leave me, you know,” he called. “We must fight within the Wood to the end.”

  The staff sling bore a six-foot cord. It required both hands. At short range, its missiles had been known to kill men in armor. If they didn’t pierce, the shock sufficed.

  Carsa’s toes gripped bark. He swayed, superbly balanced. Gratillonius edged aside. Carsa turned to keep him a target.

  The cord cracked. The bullet flew faster than sight. It struck another tree. Beneath the heavy thud, torn wood groaned. The lead sank too deep t
o see.

  “That was a gauging shot,” Carsa gibed. “Next comes the real thing.”

  Gratillonius retreated. “Go off if you like,” Carsa said. “Shall we continue at dawn?”

  Surely he could better endure a night of hard frost than could an older man. He’d scramble about in the branches, keep warm, be alert and strong when his exhausted foe lumbered back into view.

  Gratillonius shifted position. What to do, what to do?

  The blow erupted.

  Suddenly he lost hold of his shield. It dangled by the strap. His left forearm was aflame. Broken? He had no use of that hand. A hole showed where the slug had entered, above the metal boss. It had gone straight through the weak spot left by the earlier hit, with enough force remaining to cripple.

  Carsa reloaded. Sunset shone along the arc of his weapon.

  Gratillonius reeled to shelter behind the nearest trunk. Slatting and banging, his shield was now more hindrance than help. He slipped it free and dropped it. Briefly he wanted to follow, lie down on it and let the blessed darkness blanket him. But no, Carsa waited.

  Gratillonius drew breath, willed pain away, came back around the bole and dashed forward, zigzag. The sling pounced. Agony rived him, to the right of his breastbone. He knew the mail had warded off the bullet—though not its impact; else he’d be dead. He shoved that pain aside likewise, while he trotted on.

  Carsa reached into his pouch. Gratillonius halted, a yard or so from his enemy’s post.

  He had one chance. As a boy on the farm, he had often thrown things, brought down small game with rocks; and in the army he had learned the javelin. He hurled his sword.

  It took Carsa in the belly, flat-on rather than by the point, but with power to shove the Burdigalan off his perch. He fell to earth. Gratillonius drew knife and approached.

  Carsa rose. He was shaken, the wind thumped out of him. Yet he’d known how to land. The sling had dropped elsewhere. His own blade gleamed forth.

  They said in the Fishtail, as they did in the low inns of Londinium, that the winner of a knife fight was the fellow who got carried off to the surgeons. Gratillonius was armored, but he was also shaken, hurt, barely on his feet. Carsa could probe—