—But that evening he walked from Temir, and with him only the female druid Étain. Four guards followed, well out of earshot, the least number the King could take and not demean his name.
The storm had blown over. Grass lay rain-weighted, air nearly as wet. Clouds ringed the horizon. Eastward they towered in murky masses, off which whiteness had calved into the deepening blue. Westward they glowed with sundown, molten copper and gold run together across that whole quarter of the sky. Hush and a soft sort of chill lapped earth.
Niall made his way down from the heights of Temir and up again to the ancient hill-fort sacred to Medb. It was empty of men, because he had enough in this train for any trouble. So there he could speak freely, and maybe likewise Those Who brooded over it. Étain came along in shared muteness. She was a woman tall and thin though sightly, her hair thick and red and the first frost of her years in it.
Atop the ringwall they looked vastly over the western plain, the forest and Boand’s River to the north. Niall kept his gaze yonder while he leaned on his spear and said, “I wish your counsel.”
“You do not,’ replied the druid. “You wish my comfort.”
He cast her a glance and a troubled grin. “Well, have you any for me?”
“That is for you to know.”
I felt easier with old Nemain, he thought. And Laid-chenn’s poems had wings, where Cael’s walk. Well, time slips through our fingers till at last we hold no more of it.
“A name can abide,” she told him.
Startled at being answered, he said in his turn as steadily as he was able, “I would have mine stand always with its honor.”
She nodded. “Will you or nill you, that is so. Else power must also fall from it.”
“That will surely outlive me. Sons of mine are now kings across the breadth of Ériu.”
“But the one of them who is to have Temir and Mide from you—and he will, after your tanist falls—is a little child still. To his heritage you must add terror among his enemies; and for that, you must redeem what happened last year, against which today’s news was no more than a spark on fuel. Say how you mean to do it.”
He looked again at her, and now did not look back away. Sunset colors welled up behind her. “I think you already know,” he murmured; “yet the speaking may help me.
“One-and-twenty years ago, while Rome writhed at war with itself, I gathered a fleet and the finest of my warriors. We set course for the Biver Liger that flows to the sea through rich lands and past gleaming cities. Boundless could our winnings have been. But the witch-Queens of Ys raised a gale that drove us onto the rocks; and their King slew most of us who made it ashore.”
He drew breath to quell an undying pain and went on: “Well, Ys is no more, and yonder stream flows as of old. From travelers and scouts I know how stripped are the garrisons that hold Gallia, with the lower end of the river in the hands of strangers. Soon I will make known my intent, the which is to fare with the same strength to the same hunting ground. Men who follow me will win booty, glory, and revenge for their fathers. Afar in Rome, its King shall bewail his loss, and until the heavens fall they will remember us.”
His lifting bravado sank when she asked, “You will not be calling at Ys, though, will you, now?”
“I must steer wide of it,” he said harshly, “or the men would cast me overboard to her who haunts that water.”
“It is you that she haunts, and after you, him whom she also loved.”
“What do you then see for us?” he whispered.
“In the end, you shall not go down to her. That fate is for him.”
He scowled. “You speak darkling words.”
“As the Gods do to me.” Étain reached to stroke his cheek. There was sadness in her smile, but it was undaunted. “Come to my house, darling,” she said, “and I will give you the best comfort that is mine; for it is what any mortal woman has power to give.”
3
Laden with plunder, Brennilis and her companion ships—Wolf and Eagle, for the emblem creatures of Rome—left the Islands of Crows and steered for Hivernia. There, in Mumu, they set Ruftnus off. Once more he would range about gathering intelligence on King Niall, returning to Gallia by some fisher or merchantman making that passage late in the season. “Have no fears for me,” he laughed. “I’ve become an old Ériu hand.”
A hand to strike down the enemy, Gratillonius hoped.
Homebound, the ships stood well out to sea. Not only were the waters around Ys dangerous, sight of that land was almost unbearable for some aboard. When they felt sure they were to the south of it they would turn east. That would doubtless mean doubling back along the Armorican coast to the Odita mouth, but was amply worth the added time and effort.
On their second day from Hivernia, a west wind sprang up. Rainsqualls and driving clouds hid every star or scrap of moon that night; in the morning, the position of the sun was a matter of guesswork. With the sky went knowledge of bearings. The ships wallowed on through ever heavier seas, through wet and cold and clamor.
“What foul luck,” growled Gratillonius when the next day brought no surcease.
“I wonder if luck is all it is,” replied Evirion.
“You’ve said what I did not want to say.”
Late that afternoon they saw white spouts and sheets to port. Evirion nodded. “The Bridge of Sena,” he reminded landsman Gratillonius—rooks and reefs strung out for miles west of the island. “We should clear them, going close-hauled, but ’twill be a near thing. The galleys will need hard rowing.”
Gratillonius snorted a laugh of sorts. “Naught like yonder kind of sight to put force in a man’s arms.” A jape was a shield.
Wind raved. Spindrift flew bitter. Pushed near the grounds, the farers saw billows crash on skerries and churn between them, foam turning their gray backs into snow-swirls. Spray dimmed sight, a flung-up fog under the hastening smoky clouds. It roared, snarled, hissed, as if dragons ramped within.
And yet the ships clawed off. Beneath strained sail or on straining oars, they lurched and pitched their way south. The dread that had grown within him began to loose its hold on Gratillonius’s heart. Soon, he thought, sometime in the endless hours before dark, they’d be past the trap.
Evirion cried out. The galleys were to port of the large ship. Shallower of draught and lower of freeboard, they let their crews see rocks that the waves half hid, in time to veer off and thus warn Brennilis. The one farthest in, Wolf, had abruptly turned east. She was bound straight for the surf.
“What in Lir’s name are they doing?” Evirion yelled. “Come back, you clodheads! Come back, Taranis thunder you!” The wind shredded his call, the breakers trampled it underhoof.
Eagle swung about and bore west. Her oars flailed the water. Whatever they’d seen or heard aboard Wolf, the other crew had caught just enough of it to make them flee.
Gratillonius remembered what Maeloch had told him, and later Nemeta. He remembered the fight in the bay at dusk. For an instant the horror stopped his heart. Then he was again the commanding officer of his men. Amreth Taniti, the whole squad of marines from Ys, was in Wolf.
He grabbed Evirion’s arm. “They’ve been lured,” he said above the skirl and thunder. “If we let them go, they’ll drown.” And with them a goodly part of the treasure that could save their people—but it was the men, the men who filled his head.
“Christ have mercy,” the captain groaned. “What can we do?”
“Get me rowers for the lifeboat. Launch it. I’m going after them.”
Evirion gaped. “Have you gone mad too?”
“God damn it, don’t piss away what little time we’ve got!” Gratillonius snapped in Latin. “Jump to it, if you haven’t lost your balls overboard!”
Evirion’s face darkened. Gratillonius knew it was touch and go whether the young man would strike him or obey him.
Evirion was off along the deck, shouting into the wind.
Gratillonius came after, likewise bawling forth words.
“Eight men for the rescue! Eight brave Christian men! You scuts, will you let that demon have your mates? Christ’ll ride with us!”
He was not at all sure of that. But Dahut, Dahut—when she was little he’d kept her from games that might be dangerous—she must not play at the bottom of the sea with the bones of men she murdered, because that could become her doom forever.
The eight were there. Gratillonius recognized a couple of pagans among them. Did they want to show they were as bold as anybody else? No matter. Unlash the boat, drag it over a wildly rolling deck, tilt it across the rail, lower it when that side swings toward the waves, slide down a rope into a hull awash, fend off, bail while the rowers took their oars and threw the strength of their backs against the sea.
Gratillonius emptied out a last bucketful, crawled over the thwarts to the forepeak, braced himself and stood half crouched, peering ahead. Wind savaged him and his waterlogged garments. Waves loomed wrinkled and clifflike on both sides, rumbled past, became surges up which the boat climbed till it poised in spume and shriek before plunging into the next trough. The galley grew in sight. Her crew had shipped their oars. He saw them dimly through the spray, crowded forward, while the wind chivvied Wolf toward the breakers. Those were a tangle of mist and violence. Were the men blind, deaf? What gripped them?
Through the noise, a voice; through the chaos, a vision. Somehow the ghastliest of everything was a sunbeam that struck through, blinked out, struck through to gleam on her wet whiteness. Naked she was, save for wildly blowing long hair and the same gold aglow at her loins, white and slender and entrancingly rounded; aye, her beauty had blinded them, and she held out her arms and sang to them. Unbearable in the fury around, the song’s clarity streamed forth to encoil the spirit; and what it promised, no man but a saint could flee.
Desire came ablaze in the blood. Gratillonius’s member leaped to throbbing stiffness. She was Belisama, she was Dahilis, she was there and he’d have her!
No, she was Dahut, and the vessel that he neared was drifting to shipwreck.
Had he watched and listened an instant longer, she would have caught him. To break free was like ripping his manhood out. His rowers had their backs to her, they had not seen, but they faltered. “Row!” he bellowed. “Row, you scoundrels! Stroke, stroke, stroke!” He drew his knife, wedged himself between the nearest, slashed whenever a head turned around. Twice he bloodied a cheek. Meanwhile he hurled noise out of his lungs, commands, oaths, snatches of prayer, lines from a marching song—“Again the tuba, the tuba calling: ‘Come, legionary, get off your duff!’”—anything to ram between that song and his men.
The boat thudded against the galley. He seized a rail and sprang across. Inboard, he stumbled over the benches to the crew. They stared before them. At the very bow was Amreth. The marine captain leaned far out, strained toward her who beckoned and sang.
Where the foam runs white on my breasts,
White, sparkling, beloved,
Your kisses course hot—
Where the sun strikes up to your eyes,
Blue, sea-flung, beloved,
My gaze clings with joy—
Come you here, as the sun joins the foam,
In all splendor, beloved,
Come cleave to me now—
Let kissing join gazing, join splendor
With all that’s most fierce and most tender
Until our joined souls we both render
To Lir in His deep.
Gratillonius shouted. He struck with fists, feet, knees, brutally hard, whatever might shock them out of their daze. When he cast them down onto the benches, they sat hunched, shaking their heads. He wrestled oars back into place, clamped hands about them, hallooed deafening into ears: “Row! Row! Row!”
Did the song ring with victory? The galley sprang toward it. Gratillonius bounded aft. He seized the tiller and put it hard over. He should have had rowers on one side only, to make the turnaround fast. He dared not give the order. The men were stunned. They worked like oxen at a millstone. He must not risk their coming fully aware. The slowness raked him.
But then Wolf was headed back out. Gratillonius’s bulk blocked off sight of the one on the reef. “Stroke, stroke, stroke!”
In the bows, Amreth howled. He sprang. A wave bore him past the stern, toward Dahut.
“Stroke, stroke, stroke!” Gratillonius glared right and left. The lifeboat was also bound for safety. He hazarded a glance behind. Did he catch a last sight of him who swam, or was it seaweed or a piece of wreckage? No more sunlight kindled the foam-haze. There were only rocks and breakers.
The rhythm of the oars clattered to naught. Men gaped at each other. Emptiness in their eyes gave way to bewilderment. “What happened?” Gratillonius heard in tatters through the wind. “What came over me? A dream. … I can’t rightly remember—”
Eagle coursed to join her sister and give help. Brennilis sailed on. Men crowded her port rail to cheer.
Gratillonius sagged at the rudder. He could let go of himself now.
Christ, if it was You Who stood by us, thank You. I wish I could honestly say more than that. Maybe later. I’m so tired, so wet, so wrung. All I want to do is crawl off and sleep. If I can. Maybe first, once I’m alone, I’ll weep. Forgive me, if You please, when I don’t weep for those we lost fighting in the islands or for Amreth my friend, but for Dahut.
4
“No doubt of it, sir,” Nagon Demari said.
Bacca raised his brows. “Oh? Just what are your sources?” he inquired. “You can’t be exactly beloved in those parts.”
Taken aback when the procurator did not at once hang on what he had to relate, Nagon answered sullenly, “I’ve got my ways.”
“Of course. In a position like yours, one must. But what do you yourself employ?”
Nagon stood before the seated man with his legs planted apart, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward, as if under a load. “Well, a couple of fellows who escaped from Ys, common dock workers they were, they’ve not forgotten what I once did for them and their kind. The great Grallon isn’t so wonderful in their eyes. For a little money, they’re glad to tell me things. Others—really need money, or they’ve got a grudge, or I’ve learned something about them they’d rather nobody knows.”
“The usual methods. You had experience in Ys. What is this latest news?”
“Not mere rumors. I went myself when I first heard those, and asked around. Not into town, you understand. The farms, the villages, places where they don’t always know who I am.”
“Nor are rustics apt to have much first-hand political knowledge of any kind. But what did you find them abuzz over?”
“Grallon’s back with another load of loot. This time he went and took it off pirates in—seems to’ve been the Britannic Sea.”
Bacca’s lips shaped a soundless whistle. “Indeed?”
“That’s the word, sir.” Exultation danced in the flat face, the small pale eyes. “You’ve got him! He’s finally overreached himself. Deliberately organized a military expedition, a civilian armed force. You can behead him!”
Bacca sat still for a minute or two. Nagon dithered.
The procurator sighed. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “You can’t have heard from anybody who took an actual part.”
“No, but word’s leaked out like through a sieve.’
“He’s known it would, and allowed for it.”
“Arrest a few men who did go, interrogate them under torture—”
“You’re an able man in your fashion,” Bacca said, “but statecraft is beyond you. Think, however. If we moved openly against Gratillonius, at this hour when he’s come home as a savior, why, we would quite likely have a rebellion on our hands. Do you want to explain that to the praetorian prefect? Do you imagine the lord Stilicho would praise our handling of the case? Meanwhile, Gratillonius and his worst troublemakers will have slipped off into the wilderness; and his friends the tribune and the bishop will insist this is all an unfortunate misunders
tanding.
“No, we cannot act on a basis of gossip, no matter how well-founded it appears to be. You will speak no further of this to anyone whatsoever. Is that clear?’
Nagon’s countenance purpled. He lifted fists in air. “Was my work for nothing?” he cried. “Is that devil going to keep on his merry way and, and make a joke of us? Can’t you get it into your head, he’s dangerous?”
Bacca held up a palm. “Softly. Watch your tongue, especially in the presence of your superiors.”
Nagon slumped. “I’m sorry, sir,” he got out.
“That’s better.” Bacca rubbed his nose and stared long at the opposite wall. Finally he said, “I do appreciate your efforts, and they do have value. I would have gotten wind of this one way or another, but belatedly and in much less detail than I imagine you can supply. What’s important, I think, is the knowledge that Gratillonius does now have at his beck a force capable of carrying out such an operation. Thus far it must be small. Being warned, we can take steps to prevent its further growth, until such time as we are ready to eradicate it. … Success like his feeds on itself. We must insure that there are no more successes—no more missions for him and his irregulars. This requires—m-m, some very tactful discussion with … the Duke of the Armorican Tract. … Not to provoke him into ill-advised action against Confluentes. But to make clear to him that the help of such people is more to be feared than the onslaught of the barbarians. … Courage, Nagon. You’ve done well. Sit down, give me your full report. In due course you shall have an appropriate reward.”
5
Harvest brought wholeness.
“I’m not sleepy yet,” Gratillonius said. “I’ll go for a walk first.”
Verania yawned. She always did so in a way that made him think of a kitten. “Well, I’m quite ready for bed,” she admitted.
He chucked her under the chin. “I won’t be gone long. As soon as you’re healed, I won’t be gone at all.”
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