Apuleius cast a glance at Gratillonius. “Two others were princesses,” he reminded.
“I know,” said Bacca. “But—correct me if I am wrong—my understanding is that one of them is very near her time. If nothing else, it would be unkind to make demands on her beyond the holy ones of motherhood. The second is … unavailable. Is that right, Gratillonius?”
How much have his spies told him? swept through Nemeta’s father. Too damned much, for certain. If I could run a sword through that slippery windpipe!
It would be useless. Worse than useless. Gratillonius sagged onto his elbow. He made his head nod.
“Well, then,” Bacca continued, geniality undiminished, “I think a preliminary conference between myself and you, the key persons in these little communities, is desirable. I can spell out the terms of the decree and answer questions. Together we can plan how to proceed. For it will, I repeat, be difficult at first. Beneficent in the long run, as the Emperor in his wisdom well knew; but in the early stages, a test of your capabilities and, may I say, your loyalty.” He found his target across the table. “Yours especially, Gratillonius.”
2
Once, beyond the Wall of Hadrianus, a detachment he had led forth on a scouting mission marched into ambush. The Romans fought their way to a hillcrest and formed up, but the wild men were many and the centurion could hope for no more than to take a number of them with him. While the enemy swirled and howled about, gathering for a rush, he looked through rain at the painted bodies and wet iron, and wondered where the years of his life were gone.
Providentially, a larger band from the Sixth, under Drusus, heard the racket and quick-stepped toward it. All of a sudden a Roman standard blew brilliant above the heather, a tuba sounded, and the javelins flew. Gratillonius took his men back down, and the squadrons cut themselves free.
Now he stood on another high place and yonder stood Drusus, but there could be no rescue, not for either of them, ever again. They had not even any foes they could kill. And where had the years gone?
This market day shone bright. Clouds scudded over the blue, wavelets ran upon rain puddles, the woods tossed and distantly roared as wind bit into them, leaves broke free of yonder red-brown-yellow minglement and scrittled across fields, the last migratory birds trekked aloft with cries ringing as cold as the air, all the world seemed to be in departure. That, at least, was right, thought Gratillonius.
From the top step of the old manor house, his basilica that had been, he saw his people that had been. Here and there a face leaped from the crowd into his vision, like a blow on the shield he no longer carried.
Those were Suffete Councillors of his in Ys—Ramas Tyri, who spoke for the artisans; Hilketh Eliuni of the carters; master mariner Bomatin Kusuri, he of the Celtic tattoos and sweeping mustaches, who had fared overland with his King. Close to them was Amreth Taniti, captain of marines, lately grubbing the soil and the bitterness of it eating him away. Olath Cartagi, ironmaker, nourished a cheerfulness that was about to be taken from him. Maeloch and his woman Tera had elbowed to the front, as near Gratillonius as they could get. Cadoc Himilco was at their side, forgetful of status, half of him off with Julia where she lay in labor.
They trusted their King. And so did others. He made out new settlers, Vellano of the Redones, Riwal from Britannia, and more. He recognized Bannon, headman of Dochaldun, with fellow Osismii who had heard that this day’s market would deal in omens. Even the numerous Aquilonians stared expectant.
Some persons were missing. Gratillonius didn’t know whether he wished they were here or not. Nemeta, off in her pagan hermitage. Evirion Baltisi, supposedly among the Northmen if he lived. Rufinus, whom Maeloch had ferried to Mumu in Hivernia, where he would spend the next months gleaning intelligence on Niall of the Nine Hostages—for whatever good that might do now—
Bacca leaned slightly toward Gratillonius and said in his ear, “I suggest you commence.” The latter forced a nod. Bacca assumed an erect stance. In his toga he was like a marble pillar. Did Runa watch from within the house? No doubt. She’d been so gracious to the procurator, so attentive to his every word. Gratillonius had gone riding, chopped firewood, busied himself in his workshop.
Well, get it over with. He raised his right arm. The buzz and stir before him died out. His voice rolled forth.
Surprised, he found it hurt less than the rehearsals in his mind. He felt himself almost outside the thing that spoke.
“People of Confluentes—” He must use Latin while Bacca listened, who had no Ysan nor, likely, Gallic; for Bacca would report. “—of the whole municipality of Aquilo—” How far did those bounds go? The Imperial will was that this entire region come under close control. “I have the honor to present to you the procurator of your province—” That was the proper form, wasn’t it, for a lord of state? “—decided I should give you the news, rather than one of your officials, because you’re most familiar with me—” They must hear it from his mouth, which had made such brave noises earlier, that he surrendered.
“Rejoice! In his wisdom and compassion, the Emperor Honorius has been pleased to receive us wholly among the Romans. By his decree, we are all of us, men, women, and children, formerly mere foederates from Ys—we are full citizens of Rome.’
Shouts. Groans. A few cheers. Much stunned silence. Hurry on, hold their attention, keep them in hand.
“—I am dismissed as tribune. That title has become meaningless—” Not really.
“Nor, of course, can I or any citizen be King, in this great Republic. You may no longer call me that. Please don’t embarrass me and break the law—” Maeloch spat on the ground in plain sight of Bacca.
“—I am a curial of Aquilo, by appointment. My special responsibility is to those citizens who were once Ysan subjects. Under the tribune Apuleius, as directed by our Governor Glabrio in Turonum, I have many duties for your well-being—
“—collect the taxes—
“—maintenance of public order and legality—
“—runaway serfs and slaves identified and returned to their proper places—
“—no more illicit relationships with outlaws in the wilderness. The government intends to rid Armorica of them. We must do our part—”
Bomatin folded arms and glared at his old friend. Bannon clutched the haft of his knife; he had spears at home.
Gratillonius stretched a smile across his face. “Now none of this can happen fast,” he said, and heard his tone grow nearly natural. “Go on about your daily lives. Thanks to the Emperor, you have a security you didn’t before. True, the taxes are high, but the needs of the state are pressing. Senator Apuleius, Bishop Corentinus, and I, well see to it that nobody is destroyed. We’ll arrange terms, grant loans, that sort of thing. You know us; you know we’ll look after you. We don’t plan to make any immediate arrests, either Everybody who wants to square himself with the law will have his chance. Stay calm. You’re Romans, with the rights of Romans.”
He cast a glance at Bacca. The man remained impassive. Gratillonius had won permission to add this slight comfort to his speech—he never would have if Corentinus and Apuleius hadn’t thrown their weight on his side—but he’d departed from the prepared text, because he felt sure it would have driven the wedge between him and the people deeper yet. Not that he’d said anything forbidden; but Bacca might object to how he said it.
He caught no hint either way. Looking back to the assembly, he finished, “That’s all. Ill hear whatever you want to tell me in future, and if you have a legitimate complaint I’ll try to do something about it, but for now, this is all. Hail and farewell.” The wind scattered his words with the dead leaves.
3
He shut it out when he closed the door of Cadoc’s house behind him. His son-in-law was already in the foreroom, having sped there immediately after the meeting. Fine raiment, though rumpled and sweat-stained, was garish amidst rush-strewn clay floor, roughly plastered walls, thatch above ceilingless rafters. Tallow candles guttered against
twilight seeping in through the membranes across windows. A charcoal brazier gave some warmth but strengthened the stench.
Cadoc sprang from his stool. “Welcome, sir,” he greeted unevenly, in Latin. “G-good of you to come.”
“She’s my daughter,” Gratillonius answered in Ysan. “How fares she?”
“It goes, the midwife said, it goes.” Cadoc smote fist in palm. “But so slowly!”
“No more than usual for a first birthing,” Gratillonius told him, and hoped he spoke truth. “She’s a healthy lass.”
“I’ve been praying. I’ve made vows to the saints.” Cadoc mustered determination. “If you did likewise—”
Gratillonius shrugged. “Would the saints heed an outsider? It might turn them hostile.”
Cadoc shuddered.
“Be at ease,” Gratillonius counselled. “Men perforce abide these times.” He grinned a bit. “Well do I know.”
The stare he got made him realize his mistake. “See here,” he continued at speed, “you should take your mind off what you can’t help, and we’ve this moment alone. I’d have come sooner, but folk thrust around me, plucked my sleeve, gabbled and sobbed and yelled. ’Twas like being a wisent set on by a pack of hounds.”
Cadoc ran tongue over lips. “They w-were wrathful, then?”
“Not at me. I misspoke myself. I meant that they … clung.” Through Gratillonius’s head growled Maeloch’s voice, “By every God there may be, ye be still the King of Ys.” And Maeloch’s Tera had flung her stout arms about him and quickly, savagely kissed him on the mouth. He gusted a sigh. “How can I make them wary? We’re off on a foreign road.”
“The road of Rome,” said Cadoc slowly. “I understand. They must learn the way to walk it, and … you must be their teacher.”
“If I can.” Gratillonius began pacing, side to side, fingers clenched against each other at his back. Footfalls thudded, rushes rustled. “I fear that what Rome orders me to do will slay what faith most of them seem yet to have in me—a faith I suspect surprised Bacca, and one he will seek to make me destroy.”
“You have experience, sir, in … in balancing demands against each other—you, the K-k-king of Ys.”
“No more. And that was different. We were sovereign, the Nine and I. Oh, we must take Rome into account, most carefully into account; and of course I bore my duty toward her, I, an officer, a son of hers. But still, we were free in Ys. How do they handle it here?”
“They do as their superiors bid. Nay?”
Gratillonius barked a laugh. “I know better than that.” His small levity flickered out. “Well, we can’t allow rebellion.”
“What would you have me do?” Cadoc asked.
Gratillonius stopped before him. Out of turmoil, decision crystallized. “Why, carry on your survey, along with such other rangers as we can trust to be quiet about it. Naught unlawful there. However, we’d liefer they don’t hear of it in Turonum, eh?”
Cadoc opened and shut his mouth before he could reply, “Then you mean to g-go on weaving your net of defense? But you can’t! It calls for the outlaws in the wilderness, and—and you, we, we’re to hunt them down.”
“I have no plan,” Gratillonius snapped. “Everything may well come to naught. But I said we’re not forbidden to keep exploring the woodlands. Nor are we yet commanded to take positive action against their free dwellers; and I doubt any such orders will be forthcoming soon.” Memory of army days bobbed from the depths. He seized on it as a man overboard might grab a plank. “If they do, well, belike I’ll find myself unable to execute them fast or thoroughly. Meanwhile, soldiers at war may parley. I’ll be talking with those old bandits—through Rufinus, when he gets back—Ere then, I can only sit still. Agreed?”
Cadoc traced a cross in the air. “You run a terrible risk, sir.
“Blind obedience holds a worse one. Think. You know what’s begun happening again along our coasts. Nay, you don’t really, you’ve not seen it—I have in the past—but you’ve heard tell. Unless we ready ourselves, one day barbarians will come up this river too. What then of your wife and children, aye, your precious church? Are you with me?”
“I’m not afraid.”
Gratillonius heard the offendedness and admitted it was justified. Cadoc had totalled months, oftenest by himself, in the country of wolves.
“B-but prudence, sir,” the young man went on. “God’s will. Th-those men He has chosen to set above us—”
The inner door opened. The midwife entered. Her hands were washed but her apron speckled with red, that looked black in the candlelight. At her bosom she carried a swaddled bundle.
“Christ help us!” Cadoc beseeched.
From the burden lifted a tiny wail. The woman smiled. “Here’s your son,” she said in Ysan. “A fine boy. His mother is well.”
The men crowded close. Ruddy and wrinkled, the infant sprattled arms outward. His hands were like starfish.
“God be praised,” Cadoc moaned.
“Go see her if you will,” said the midwife. “Be not affrighted by the blood. ’Tis no more than you’d await. I’ll cleanse and make the bed fresh and she can rest till she’s ready to nurse. A brave girl, she, hardly ever cried out, aye, true daughter to the King of Ys—”
The men scarcely heard, being already on their way inside.
The bedchamber was a cubicle set off from the main room by walls, or curtains, of wickerwork in the rudest Celtic manner. It stank from the hours of labor. Shadows fell thick over Julia where she lay, but sweat gave her face a sheen. Reddish-blond hair was plastered lank across it. Her eyes were half shut. Cadoc bent above. “Darling,” he breathed. “I’m s-s-so happy. I’ll make devotions for us both and, and when you’re churched, we’ll hold a feast of thanksgiving.”
Gratillonius stood aside. He didn’t think he quite belonged here. But her gaze found him and she gave him a drowsy smile.
The midwife bustled in. “Now, out, out,” she fussed, “and let me care for the poor dear. Go admire your get. But handle him not, d’you hear, till I’ve shown you how. … Oh, but my lord, you’ll know. I’m sorry.”
Back in the main room, Cadoc leaned over the infant. “My son,” he murmured. That had been forever denied the King of Ys. He straightened. “Your grandson, sir.”
“Aye, so he is,” Gratillonius said, because he must say something.
“I shall give thanks. Many thanks to Heaven. Would you—” The question trailed off.
“Nay, I’d best be on my way. I’ll call tomorrow. When you find time, think upon what we’ve spoken of. Goodnight.”
It was a relief to step out into the cold and the wind of dusk. The lanes between houses were blessedly empty. Gratillonius started toward his dwelling.
How wonderful that Julia had come through her battle unscathed—though you were never certain till days afterward—and she had known her father and smiled at him. She always was a sweet child. He’d done well to name her after his mother. Did that Julia look down this night from the Christian Paradise she’d yearned for, and reach a hand in blessing above her son’s grandchild?
The parents were going to christen him Johannes, weren’t they? Aye, Julia had told Gratillonius that a while ago, awkwardly. “If ’tis a boy, we’ll call him after the Baptist. His day was our wedding day, you know.” Gratillonius had silently hoped for a Marcus, his own father’s name. He doubted the reason for the couple’s choice was pure sentiment. Julia would have made that up after the fact. Cadoc simply wanted a powerful patron. Or so Gratillonius believed.
A grandson, honestly begotten, appearing sound in every way. Rejoice. Gratillonius couldn’t. Aside from being glad, in an exhausted fashion, that his daughter lived, he felt vacant. Well, he’d seldom had a worse day. Later his heart might awaken. Although, in full frankness with himself and nobody else, he didn’t quite like his son-in-law. Cadoc meant well, he was a kind and faithful husband, a brave and able man, but that super-piety of his—We’ll see how the kid turns out, Gratillonius though
t.
Light glimmered dull from his house—the front room only, one or two candles his servant had kindled. Runa was at the manorial building. She’d spent her nights there since word first arrived that the procurator and his entourage would come in person. “We must have the place worthy of him,” she said. “We cannot let him think us barbarians or peasants.” Gratillonius had swallowed the implication that that was how he lived. It didn’t matter. He’d be too busy himself to pay her the attention she considered her due.
A man got up from the wall bench as he entered. “Good evening to you, your honor,” he said in Osismiic. “God grant all is well.”
Gratillonius nodded. “It is that, we think. A boy.”
“A boy, is it? God be praised. May the angels watch over his crib.”
Gratillonius looked into the weathered face. This was one of the deacons Corentinus had chosen, a trusty fellow who otherwise was a boatman on the Odita. “What brings you here, Goban?”
“The bishop sent me. He’d like you to come talk with him—confidentially, you know, if your honor’s not too tired.”
A thrill tingled some of the grayness out of Gratillonius. He understood what this meant. Corentinus and Apuleius had both absented themselves from the assembly. Bacca had as much as told them to. “This is a matter for common workers and tribesmen. I must be on hand to impress them with the seriousness of it, but your dignity could be compromised.”—and their presence could be taken as moral support of the speaker. When guests were leaving the senator that day, Corentinus had found a chance to draw Cratillonius aside and mutter, “We’ll discuss this after you’ve endured it, we twain,” in Ysan.
“I’m ready,” Gratillonius said.
“He told me the hour don’t matter, and he’ll have a bit of supper waiting. I’ll head back to my lodgings, if it please your honor.” Goban winked. “Just so nobody sees us together and gets the wrong idea, right, sir?”
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