The Dog and the Wolf

by Poul Anderson

  Nemeta’s eyes were open. The two who were left had none for her. They stood gaping into sightlessness. She slipped from them.

  “We’ve got to keep moving,” gasped the clubber. “You face right, I’ll face left. Crabwise, got me?”

  They advanced a few paces, reached a wall whose remnant top they could not see, moved along it. He with the sword leaped from above. He landed on the shoulders of the clubber, who went down with a sound of breaking spine and ribs. The clubber lay where he had fallen, for he had no movement below the waist. He flailed his arms about and ululated. The spit bubbled red in his beard.

  “No!” yammered the boy. “Please, please! I’m sorry!” He dropped his bill and fled. The tall man followed leisurely.

  —Evirion found Nemeta halfway up Taranis Way, resting on a wing that had fallen off a stone gryphon. His blade dripped, but the hue was pale, fog settling on the steel and running down to carry the blood away. Surf noises sounded louder. The wind had died.

  He stood and stared at her, barely able to see through the murk. “How are you?” he asked hoarsely.

  She raised her head. “I live,” she answered without tone. “I can travel if we go easily. And you?”

  “Unhurt save for this shoulder, which isn’t too bad.” He left off mention of scrapes, cuts, and bruises from his scramble to the sea. “Tomorrow the carrion birds will make dung of those bandits.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “I know not. Something other than my own spirit had me. Something that laughed as It bargained—four lives in exchange for our two.”

  She hugged herself, bit her lip, climbed painfully to her feet. “Then the deal is completed, and we’d best depart while we can,” she said.

  “Aye.” He gave her his free arm to lean on. “Nor ever return. Unwise was I to come. The Gods I trusted are evil, or mad. Never can I make amends to you.”

  She looked before her, into the unrestful gloom through which they groped. “You did not compel me,” she said wearily.

  “At least,” he vowed, “you shall have your full share of what we did win.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll take none of it. Cast it from you.”

  “Hoy? After what ’tis cost us?” He overcame his shock. “And what it means to my life. How can you say that? What knowledge have you?”

  “No more than you have of what happened this eventide—” All at once she could walk no farther. She swayed, her knees buckled. He caught her.

  “Poor lass,” he mumbled. “Poor hurt lass.” He sheathed his sword and took her up. “Here, lay your arms around my neck. Ill carry you back. At dawn we’ll leave. If you refuse the gold, well, you may always call on me for whatever else is in my gift. Always.”

  She nestled her head against him. “I’ll remember that,” she whispered.

  2

  Mons Ferruginus and the woods beyond the Odita blazed with autumn, red, russet, yellow under the earliest sun-rays. Dew glittered on grass, vapors curled white above the stream. It ran through an enormous silence, beneath blue spaciousness. Air lay chill but already full of earth odors.

  No one else was about when Gratillonius left Aquilo. Folk were sleeping late after last night’s festivities. Tables had been modestly spread, in this year when the neighborhood divided what it had with the survivors of Ys, but drink was plentiful and merriment, after a while, feverish. As early as manners allowed, he had retired to a bed in the Apuleius home. His own was too close to the noise.

  Not that he begrudged the people their celebration. They had earned it. They were alive, safe, housed; more toil and hardship lay before them, but nothing they could not overcome. When Corentinus dedicated Confluentes, he simply gave utterance to the fact of the colony. It was built. Most of its inhabitants occupied their dwellings, the rest would as soon as they had finished whatever obligations they had assumed in the course of earning their keep. Well might they cheer for Gratillonius their tribune, Grallon their King.

  Wryness twisted the man’s mouth. He was neither, of course. If his appointment was not revoked, that was merely because no one in the Imperial administration had thought to do so. As for his throne, it was under the sea with the bones of his Queens.

  He strode on. Gravel scrunched underfoot. He needed something to do, anything. Well, he had no lack. But decision, organization, leadership required others be present. He thought he’d seek the manor, where Favonius was stabled, saddle the stallion and ride into the forest. Take spear and bow along; he might have a chance at a deer or a boar. Afterward, the tension out of him, maybe he could start arranging the woodworking shop he wanted. The one in Ys had given him pleasure and, aye, peace.

  Should he have become a carpenter? He might this day dwell quietly in Britannia with wife and … sons; oh, daughters too, the older ones married and giving him grandchildren. But he wasn’t born to that station. Anyway, somebody had to keep guard over the carpenter’s hearth.

  At the upper bridge he lingered a few minutes. The air was so pure, the river so serene. How different from yesterday. Here Corentinus had stood and preached his sermon, while the bank and the harvested field beyond were packed solid with people, not simply those of Ys—of Confluentes but nearly everyone in Aquilo. After all, Corentinus was their bishop now, the first resident bishop they had ever had. Old Maecius had retired to the monastery at Turonum. You could sense a new order of things being born. Conversion of the pagan immigrants to the Faith would be just the beginning.

  The rough voice echoed in Gratillonius’s head: “—thanks to almighty God and His Son, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, for Their manifold mercies. May the Holy Spirit descend to sanctify and bless these homes—” Mainly, however, as usual, Corentinus had talked to the commoners like one of their own. “—‘Love your neighbor’ isn’t any simpering bit of goody-goodyness, you know. It’s as tough a commandment as was ever laid on a man. Often you d like to bash your neighbor’s head in, or at least kick him in the butt. You Aquilonians, and I include the surrounding tribesfolk, you’ve been mighty kind to these outcasts; and you Ysans have been brave, and mostly done your best to make some return; but I know of quarrels, or outright blows, wrongs done on both sides, and it could get worse instead of better as time wears on. Doesn’t have to, though. We’re none of us saints, but we can be honest and reasonably patient with the neighbor. We can all stand together against whatever troubles come on us, in this world where Satan always prowls on the lookout for souls he can snatch.—”

  Gratillonius wondered why the words stayed with him. He’d heard their like aplenty during the years Corentinus was in Ys, and they’d never been anything startling in the first place. Was it their impact on Julia that drove them into him? Lanarvilis’s daughter had stood unwontedly solemn, intent, listening. Most times she was calm, even cheerful; when the memory of what she had lost struck fully into her, she didn’t weep or brood or get drunk like many survivors, she grew quiet and kept extra busy. Suddenly she had seemed beautiful to him. Before, she was merely a large girl, well filled out, roundfaced, snub-nosed, blue-eyed, her best feature the wavy reddish-brown hair.

  Well, if she was to find consolation in Christ, good for her. Likewise had Gratillonius’s mother, for whom he named the child. He hoped the religion wouldn’t estrange her from him. It was a glow near the middle of the cold and hardness in him that she, after the alienation of the final months in Ys, again gave him not bare filial obedience but, he thought, some love.

  As Forsquilis’s daughter Nemeta had not—secretive, rebellious, runaway Nemeta. Since her vanishment in late summer Gratillonius had had no heart for revelry. They were dancing on the ground outside the ditch, beneath torches lashed to poles, when he left. Julia and young Cadoc Himilco had looked very happy together. Let them savor it for whatever short while they could.

  Gratillonius shook himself. No use moping here. He crossed the bridge. It was of wood, like the one above the Aquilonian waterfront, but smaller, meant for workers on the Apuleius estate and
in the forest to convey their produce. Confluentes would bring more traffic than that; something better was necessary. He found refuge in thinking about ways and means.

  On the opposite shore, three sentries paced back and forth between the Stegir and the south end of the eastern earthworks. Regulars, but local, they were not legionaries nor outfitted like legionaries; that was a thing of the past. However, they did wear helmets and coats with iron rings sewed to the leather, they did carry swords, spears, and small round shields. If their bearing and movements weren’t soldierly by ancient standards, at least they were alert and reasonably smart; they had learned from Maximus’s veterans. The nearest of them recognized Gratillonius and snapped to a halt, thudding his spear down in salute. No law entitled Gratillonius to that, but so men did in these parts. He made an acknowledging gesture and passed on.

  Confluentes lay around him, the town he and Corentinus had brought into being. A visitor from a city would find it unimpressive. It amounted to less than a hundred buildings between two streams and a breastwork with ditch, in a corner of cleared land whereof the rest would now be devoted to subsistence agriculture. The buildings were wood and clay under thatch roofs. The largest, oblongs of coarsely squared timber, held three or four rooms and had windows covered with membrane; the least were cylindrical wattle-and-daub shielings. Shops and worksteads were few, tiny, primitive. There was no marketplace, basilica, church, ornamentation; everything still centered in Aquilo. At this hour there was hardly a sign of life.

  Nevertheless … the houses were well built, neatly kept. The streets ran in a Roman grid, with gravel on them. If men, women, children slept yet behind these walls, it was because yesterday they had rejoiced at what was done here and what might be done in years unborn.

  He passed a house as long as any. It was for unmarried women, chief among them those who had been vestals of Ys. The door stood ajar. It opened, and Runa came out.

  He stopped at her signal. For a moment they regarded each other. The daughter of Vindilis and Hoel wore a blue cloak over a plain gray gown. Its cowl was thrown back and the raven hair flowed free from under a headband, past the narrow face and the shoulders. “Well,” she said at length, low and in Ysan.

  “How are you?” he replied awkwardly, in Latin.

  “Whither fare you this early?”

  He shrugged.

  “Restless, as often aforetime.” From beneath the high arches of brow, her dark gaze probed him. The whiteness of her skin made that look appear doubly intense. “I too. May I walk along with you?”

  He wondered if she had thought him likely to come by and had waited. “I’d in mind to go hunting,” he said brusquely.

  “You may change your mind after we’ve talked. A private hour is rare for us.”

  “Well—as you wish.” He set off again. She accompanied him without effort. The long skirt billowed and rustled.

  “They missed you after you left last eventide,” she said presently. “They wanted their King among them. It was a hallowing, after all.”

  “The Kingship is dead. Those Gods indwell no longer.” He observed in faint surprise that he had also gone over to the Ysan tongue.

  “Are you altogether sure, Gratillonius?” She seldom shortened his name as most people did. “I stayed not late myself. Drinking and dancing are not to my taste. But I’d heard the regret. You cannot abdicate.”

  “What do you want of me?” he growled.

  “Why must you suppose I have a petition?”

  He grinned lopsidedly. “From you ’twould be a demand. Ever has it been. Oh, I understand and respect. We clash, but we work toward the same end, and you’ve been a strong help. Shrewd, too.”

  Especially had she done what neither he nor Corentinus could, taken chieftainship among the women, spoken for them, found places where they could work with a measure of dignity, pressed in her acid fashion for a little of the freedom they had enjoyed in Ys. The bounds now around them were high and strait.

  Runa sighed. “That nears an end. One by one they settle in, marry or find service that will endure and is endurable. Aye, you can grant me something. But ’twill be for the colony as well.”

  “What?”

  “I suppose you’ve heard that I won myself paid occupation.”

  He nodded. “I’ve seen some of what you’ve done. Apuleius showed me.”

  Skilled copyists were always in demand. Runa was not only literate, she could do calligraphy. Apuleius was eager to have duplicates of books on his shelves. He could trade them for volumes he did not possess—or, rather, trade the older editions and keep hers. She was well along with the Metamorphoses in spite of adding flourishes and figures that delighted the beholder.

  “Corentinus admired it too when he returned,” Gratillonius added. “I happened to be there. In fact, he asked whether you might replace the church’s worn-out Gospel—I forget which one—after you’ve become a Christian.”

  “He takes much for granted, does he not, the holy man?” she murmured.

  He threw her a startled glance. She gave him a look of—expectancy? “What would you of me?” he blurted.

  “Apuleius has told me the family will no longer use the fundus. ’Twas never a profitable property; in the main, a retreat the children enjoyed, and they are growing up.”

  Gratillonius nodded. “Aye. The house lies outside the defense, you recall. Natheless, men have suggested I occupy it—for my palace? I’m content with my cabin in Confluentes. Still, I have thought—we’ll hold occasional meetings, business concerning this community alone. The manor house our basilica? ’Twould be worthier than aught else we have.”

  “A good thought. In between, though, shall it stand deserted save for a caretaker? Nay, let me dwell there. I’ll assemble a proper staff for its maintenance and for the reception of your … council. I’ll have space and peace to carry on my work—which is more than copying books, Gratillonius.”

  Taken aback, he considered her proposal. It did look like having merit. True, tongues would wag. What of it? Females—widows, for instance—had commonly enough taken charge of places. “What more do you mean?” he inquired cautiously.

  “Guidance,” she said. “Counselling. I was a leader in Temple affairs. Let not my experience go to waste.”

  He harked back. After her vestalhood ended she had in fact made herself useful among the Queens until she married Tronan Sironai. Whatever happiness the pair had was brief. While no open breach occurred, most Suffetes knew she was soon ill content with the part of wife. She was much in company with the more intelligent young men of Ys; for them she put aside the dourness she bore at home. Rumor did not, though, make any of them her lovers. At last she took minor orders and busied herself in the Temple, where she handled her duties well. During the conflict between King and Queens she was wholly and bitterly of the latter party. However, since the whelming she had reconciled herself with Gratillonius. Sometimes, as today, she was outright amiable.

  “Among females, I suppose,” he ventured.

  She frowned, parted her thin lips as if to retort to an insult, closed them again. When she spoke, it was stiffly. “Whoever may have need. ’Tis a cruel change we’ve all suffered. Many are worse wounded than you know.” The tone softened. “Such as your child Nemeta.”

  He stopped in mid-stride and faced her. His heart stumbled and began to race. “You have news of her?”

  Runa took his arm. “Walk onward. Folk will be astir. Best they see naught to make them wonder.”

  He fell into a mechanical gait. His throat felt engorged. “What can you tell me?” he demanded.

  “First give me what information you have,” she replied calmly.

  “What? Why?”

  “That I may know if any confidences remain for me to honor.” After a moment she went on, against his outraged silence: “A girl can open her heart to an older woman as she cannot to her mother, or her father. Shall I betray her? Would you spill what a boy told you as he wept?”

  He wag
ed a struggle before he could answer: “Well, you recall I gave out she’d left to take a position offered her elsewhere, as nurse to the children of an honorable Gallic family. That was to shield her name.”

  “And yours,” Runa said tartly. “Yet a clever story. With their educations, doubtless a number of well-born Ysan women will find themselves thus invited, once they’re christened. Of course, Nemeta is fierce in her refusal to submit. What did she give you?”

  “A scrawled note. I found it tucked into the sheath with my sword, days after Rufinus and his men were scouring the woods for any spoor of her.”

  “They were? I was unaware. Everybody was.”

  “You were meant to be Rufinus is cunning.” Gratillonius sighed. “The note said she would suffer no more humiliation but had gone off to a better fate. That was all. Since then, naught.” His jaw clenched till it hurt. “Now, by Ahriman, tell me what you know ere I wring it out of you.”

  “I’ve lately had word from her,” Runa said. “Ask me not who bore it. She’d fain come back, but it must be on her terms. No questions, ever. A house built on a site away from these towns, which she will choose. Freedom to make her own life. That’s a freedom you must stand guarantor of, Gratillonius, because ’twill defy the Church. Oh, no whoredom, naught sordid; but what Gods she serves will be old ones.”

  “Where is she? I’ll go speak to her.”

  Runa shook her head. “My faith is plighted.”

  Again he stopped. They had passed out of Confluentes, through a gap in the north wall and a ridge of shored-up earth that led across the ditch, onto the path beyond. The sentries there had also saluted him. The manor house gleamed from behind a callous loveliness of autumnal trees. He seized her by the upper arms. “Dare you stand between me and my daughter?” he snarled.

  The grip was bruising, but she held firm. “Let me go,” she said: a command.

  He dropped his hands. “That’s better,” she told him. “Henceforward give me my due respect, if you’d have any good of me; and God knows you need all the good you can find in this world, Gratillonius. My counsel is that you give Nemeta what she wants. Else you’ve lost her forever.”