“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 convey
ed 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.
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