The Dog and the Wolf

by Poul Anderson

  “Nemeta,” he pleaded, “you mustn’t suffer this any more, loneliness, poverty, fear. Let those who love you help you.”

  Her courage lifted anew. “Oh, now, in truth ’tis not so bad. I have my house, my cats—” She even smiled. “You’ve not met them. They’re inside. Three kittens. And I do have my freedom, and these deep woods—” The mood broke. “Father, ’tis you I sometimes weep for.”

  Wind moaned in the trees. The first raindrops fell down it.

  2

  Gratillonius was at work several miles from Confluentes when Salomon found him. A man must work, no matter how hollow he felt within.

  A curial, responsible for the lives of many, required a suitable livelihood. You couldn’t forever spend pirate gold; besides, it was earmarked for public purposes. Since his marriage he had gone into partnership with Apuleius. Without talent for the management of land, the latter had never been able to make the fundus pay, and Confluentes had taken over that ground. Broad new acres being cleared and claimed, the senator financed operations which Gratillonius—farm boy, soldier, ruler—knew how to run. Sharecroppers were established and this year producing their first, excellent harvest. Meanwhile Gratillonius was properly organizing the horsebreeding Apuleius had begun. Favonius would be the prize stud, but he meant to get more, for the servicing of the finest brood mares he could find. There ought to be a boundless market. Rome needed cavalry.

  On this day he was overseeing the fencing of a meadow, taking a hand himself. He didn’t enjoy that as erstwhile, he no longer enjoyed anything, but at least it got the cramp out of his muscles. Salomon rode up at his usual breakneck pace, reined in his mount and made it curvet. “Hail!” he shouted.

  Gratillonius squinted against the sun, which haloed those locks the hue of Verania’s. At sixteen, Salomon was still smooth-cheeked but otherwise a young man, tall, his gangliness filled out and become both hard and supple. His tunic and breeks were striped in the gaudiest Gallic style. “What brings you?’ Gratillonius grunted.

  Salomon winced a bit. He had, though, resigned himself to his brother-in-law’s recent curtness. “You wanted to know when Corentinus returned. Well, he has.”

  It gave an excuse for a gallop, Gratillonius thought. However, the announcement let him meet with the bishop today rather than tomorrow. That might or might not prove a kindness. “Thanks,” Gratillonius remembered to say. He left instructions with his foreman and got onto Favonius.

  Radiance poured from above. The clover sown this year bloomed white. Bees droned about, gathering its riches. A stand of wild carrot filled the warmth with pungency. Its filigree was like sea foam…. What was the weather at Ys? He imagined fog, the breakers crashing unseen on rocks and remnants. Evil creatures hated sunlight, didn’t they? It hurt them.

  At the grassy wall of Confluentes, Salomon bade him goodbye and went off, doubtless in search of company more cheerful. Gratillonius continued around. The churcn there was still abuilding. Corentinus hoped to dedicate it as his cathedral before winter. Enlargement and beautification might continue for generations. That had been an idea strange to Gratillonius; but the world was moving into a different age.

  He found the bishop at home in Aquilo. Corentinus met him in the doorway. A minute passed, during which the street traffic seemed remote, while eyes beneath shaggy brows ransacked the visitor. Finally Corentinus said gently, “Welcome, my son. Come in where we can talk.”

  Gratillonius followed him to the room in which secrets were safe. Corentinus gestured at a stool. Gratillonius slumped onto it. Corentinus mixed water and wine in two cups.

  “How did it go?” asked Gratillonius. His words were flat.

  “Unseemly strife,” Corentinus answered. “I had to get mightily stiff-necked. Not so much with Bricius. He only thought he had more authority than me. I set that straight in short order. But he clung like a limpet to Glabrio’s arguments when we carried the matter before the governor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Really? I’d supposed you did. The question is what right of sanctuary the Church—any church—has. You probably weren’t aware of it at the time, and Heaven knows you’ve had plenty else on your mind since, but seven years ago the Emperor actually abolished the right of sanctuary. That provoked such resistance that he restored it a year later.”

  Honorius! thought Gratillonius. Had that half-wit any constancy at all? Last year he’d closed the Colosseum, banned gladiatorial games: undeniably a good deed, but why had he let them go on until then, until he’d given himself a triumph in Rome for the victory Stilicho won?

  It didn’t matter.

  “The law is unclear,” Corentinus continued. “It can be read as limiting the right in many ways. What kind of fugitives can we take in? Must they be Christians?” He offered his guest a cup.

  Gratillonius drank without noticing the taste. “I remember now,” he mumbled. “Pardon me. My head is fuzzy these days. You want freedom to use your own judgment in every case, is that it?”

  “Exactly.” Corentinus stayed erect, looming above the man who sat hunched. “The governor doesn’t like that any more than the Emperor ever did. It sets the Church above the state: as is fit and proper, of course.” He tossed off a hefty draught. “Matters came to a head like this because it was me involved—meaning you. Confluentes is drawing new people from as far as Britannia. They don’t knuckle under easily. Having the Church to appeal to encourages this. Well, I upheld my sovereignty, but I and those clergy who think the same have a long struggle before us. Clear to the Pope in Rome, I’m sure, and to the Emperor, whoever and wherever he is then.”

  Wherever indeed, Gratillonius thought. Honorius had his seat in Ravenna, from which escape by sea to Constantinople was easy. Stilicho had lately moved the praefectural capital of Gallia from Augusta Treverorum, south to Arelate, also near the sea. It was as if the frontiers were closing in. Or falling in?

  “But you didn’t come about that, Gratillonius,” he heard.

  “No.” He stared into the cup between his knees. “Have you gotten the news yet?”

  “Certainly. Poor Rufinus. A ghastly ending. I’ll pray for him. He just may have had time to see the Light. Or, anyhow—Well, we can ask there be mercy for him, if possible. We owe him that much.”

  Gratillonius barely had strength to force out: “It was Dahut that killed him.”

  Corentinus reached down to grasp his shoulder. “You’ve feared something of the kind since your battle at Ys. I have too. But it could be … a demon, or sorcerer’s work, or … creature. ”

  Gratillonius shook his head. “I know now. It’s Dahut.”

  Corentinus was silent for a space. “I won’t ask you how you know,” he said at length, heavily. “I’m afraid you’re right. Satan is aprowl in Armorica.”

  “She—” Gratillonius couldn’t go on.

  “Is surely lost,” Corentinus finished.

  Gratillonius looked up at him. It was like looking up at an ancient oak behung with gray ivy. “Can’t we, can’t you do anything?”

  “We are free to pray for a miracle,” said the compassionate, implacable voice “Otherwise—It’s not simple demonic possession. Exorcism—I can only guess, but I think an exorcism would have to be done in her presence. And she can steer clear of the Cross, or flee it and jeer from afar.”

  Gratillonius jumped to his feet. The stool clattered one way, the winecup spilled its redness another. “But we can’t forsake her!” he yelled.

  Corentinus spread his big sailor’s hands. “What would you have me do, if I could? An exorcism will cast her down into hell, eternal torment.”

  “Oh, no, no. Can’t she be saved?”

  Corentinus seemed, all at once, aged. “I don’t see how. At least now she isn’t burning. She’s taken her revenge. She may in future be content to haunt Ys. Leave her alone with the sharks, and with God.”

  “That’s … hard to do.”

  Corentinus embraced and held him, much as Gratillonius had em
braced and held Nemeta. “I understand. But you’ve got to stop brooding over this. You’re man enough to stare it down and get on with life; or else I’ve terribly misjudged you.”

  “I’ve tried,” said Gratillonius into the coarse cloth.

  “Try harder. You must. My son, my friend, you are not the first father in the world whose little girl turned wicked, nor will you be the last. It gives you no right to pull away from those who need you, who are worthy of your love.

  “Let’s pray together. In Christ is help.”

  And afterward: “In Christ is joy. And so there is in your darlings. Go home to them.”

  —At his house Verania met him, their son beside her.

  3

  On a day in autumn when the wind went loud and sharp over stubblefields and sent leaves whirling off trees in little scraps of color, folk at Drusus’s farm were surprised to see a big man ride up. This was a busy season, as they readied for winter. “The master is in town, sir, the cattle market,” said the steward. “He’ll not be back for another day or two.”

  “I know,” replied Evirion Baltisi. “I met him there, and he gave me some news that’s brought me here.”

  He dismounted, went inside, paid his respects to the lady of the house. She made him welcome, but had such work on her own hands that she was soon glad to direct him to Tera, who had been the woman of his fellow skipper Maeloch; and it was Tera whom he had come to see.

  He found her in the cottage she occupied with her children. Newly built, simple but snug, it stood at some distance from the other buildings, behind it a kitchen garden and pigpen. Fowl wandered about. She was indoors, pickling flesh; the very air in the single room tasted of vinegar. Her youngest offspring played in a corner, the rest were at tasks of their own on the farm itself. “Why, Cap’n, how wonderful!” she cried when he trod in. “What brings you this far from the water?”

  “To learn how you fare,” he answered.

  “What, me? Quite well, thank’ee. And you?”

  “I’m home again,” he snapped. “’Twas a long voyage.” Mildening: “Yesterday I heard you’d sold Maeloch’s house—your house in Confluentes, and moved back hither. Is aught wrong? He was my comrade. I’d fain do what I can for his widow.”

  She laughed. “Good of you to give me that name. Sit down.” She waved at her two stools, set her things aside, wiped her hands, dipped wooden cups full of mead from a small cask, and joined him. Meanwhile she explained: “You’re sweet, but fear not for me. ’Twas in town I grew unhappy after Maeloch was gone, me now a nobody, unchristened, offered naught but the meanest of jobs. Here I am free again, with the woods and their landwights not too far off to walk to when there’s a break in the work.”

  “You’re not a hireling of Drusus’s?”

  “Nay, more like a tenant. The kids and I could not go live alone. That would be unsafe, when Ys is no more.”

  Evirion looked abruptly grim, then thrust his thought aside and made admiring noises about the boy, Maeloch’s son, as the mother expected. “How was all this arranged?” he inquired after a time.

  “Through King Grallon,” said Tera. “I turned to him when the narrowness of streets and spite of neighbors got more than I could bear. Should have done it earlier. He made a deal for me. Drusus took the house, to sell or rent. In return, he built me this dwelling and gives me the use of this plot. Mostly we work for him, me and the kids, getting paid in kind and in protection.” She sighed, not unhappily. “Also in open skies and leave to be myself. Oh, I’ve cause to make my small spells for the welfare of Grallon and Drusus, but don’t you be telling them that. It can do no harm, can it? Mayhap a wee bit of help to them. And Grallon, at least, that overburdened man, needs all the help he can get.”

  “Know you how he is these days?” Evirion asked anxiously. “What I’ve heard since I came back has been scant and confused. He chancing to be away, I could not call and see for myself.”

  “He was gruesome downcast after his man Rufinus perished. The rumors about that are eldritch, nay? ’Tis no wonder he grew so forbidding at any talk about it, but thus he only drove the mutterings into corners.”

  Evirion nodded. “’Twas a bad business, whatever it was. Aye, when we put to sea I was troubled about him.”

  “Ease your mind. Over the months, he’s gained back heart. Not that I was watching over him, but word gets about—and I’ve overheard Drusus and his wife speaking of him, they care too—and I’ve had my whispers from the landwights. … Thanks be mostly, I think, to his Verania, he is himself again. There’s a lass!”

  “Good!” gusted from Evirion.

  Tera cocked her head at him. “I recall you as being less than his friend.”

  “That was straight after the whelming. Later—above all, since the battle at Ys—well, we need him.”

  “And you’ve grown inchmeal fond of him to boot, I daresay.’ A teasing note: “Him and his pretty, unwedded daughter.”

  At once Tera saw she had gone too far, and went on in haste, “But how has your life been? A long journey, you said. Whither? What happened?”

  Evirion’s mood stayed darker than before. “Niall being fallen, I reckoned the sea lanes he’d plagued would be clear. And so they were, for a span. We did fine business in southern Hivernia, western Alba and Britannia. But then, as we were homebound, though ‘twas uncommonly late in the sailing season, we met Saxons on the water—twice—good-sized packs of their galleys that set after us. For all the size and armament of Brennilis,!, naught saved us but speed. Had the winds been otherwise, I’d lie this day on the bottom. I think a great movement of wolves is again getting under way, and next year we’ll hear them howling at our thresholds.”

  Tera gripped her cup hard. “Despite what befell this spring?”

  “Oh, we’ll not have Scoti and Saxons together,” said Evirion. “Maeloch helped see to that.”

  Tera looked long into his eyes before she asked low, “Did he? Niall fell not at Ys, but this year. We’ve all heard tales of it, no two the same. So what did Maeloch really do? What did he die for?”

  Evirion chose to misunderstand her. “He was pursuing the Scotic boats, as well you know. Surely Niall was in one of them. Maeloch well-nigh had him overhauled. But a flaw of wind and fog—The weather was very strange that twilight.”

  “Strange indeed.” Her gaze went beyond him. “I’ve cast my spells, hearkened to my omens, trying and trying to know what went on there at the end. But naught will come to me. Alone, I am helpless against… whatever it was.” She straightened. “Well,” she said almost briskly, “what use in fretting? Each gladsome day we have lived is the one treasure that nobody can rob us of.”

  4

  The Black Months need not be dark. Rather, they could fill with ease and pleasure. Summer’s labor was over and winter’s was mostly light. Small festivities twinkled before and after the great celebrations at solstice. Occasionally Gratillonius and Verania shocked their servants by staying in bed till the late sunrise.

  A pair of candles burned soft, an Ysan practice she had learned from him. The chamber lacked a brazier, but it was not very cold outside and the house was solidly built. Her sweet sweat had anointed the air.

  She sat up amidst rumpled blankets, reached for a cake of wheat and raisins on a table, broke a piece off and handed it to him. “Here,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he replied, “but I’m not hungry yet.”

  “Eat this anyhow. Maintain your strength. You’ll need it.”

  He nibbled from her fingers. “Already again?” he marveled. “And everybody says how demure you are.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Ha! You don’t know women as well as you think you do. I’m the envy of Armorica, I am.”

  She leaned over his pillow. Her hair fell in a tent around him. The candlelight glowed along her arm, illuminating the fine down. He reached, cupped a breast, felt milk start forth across its fullness. It was astonishing how one so slender could still nurse a child as lusty as Marcus. Mayb
e that was why she hadn’t conceived anew, more than a year after the birth. They both hoped that was why. It wasn’t for lack of trying, once he had put grief behind him.

  Her free hand roved impudently. “Well, well,” she laughed.

  “Oh, give me a while longer.”

  She raised her brows. “If you’re tired, you can keep lying there and—”

  “No, no. How could I feel tired with somebody like you, till the moment I collapse in a cloud of dust? It’s only that we were in such a hurry at first.” He laid hold of her at the delicate shoulderblades and drew her downward.

  “And what would everybody say if they knew how the rough, tough Gratillonius likes to cuddle, and how well he does it, too? Fortunately, I like it myself.”

  “And do it superbly.”

  She laid her mouth to his. “R-r-r,” she purred.

  It racketed at the door. “What the devil?” he growled. The knocking was frantic. None of the staff would interrupt without urgency. “Coming!” he called. His feeling was mainly anger at the wretched mischance, whatever it might be.

  Verania drew blankets to chin. Gratillonius didn’t trouble to throw anything over himself. That was a man yonder, as hard as he’d struck. Gratillonius opened the door.

  Salomon stood there. He wore merely a tunic, hadn’t stopped to bind on sandals, must have kicked off indoor slippers and set forth at his full long-legged speed. He still panted. It was in deep, shuddering sobs. Tears coursed from his eyes.

  “Father is dead,” he reported.

  —The sky arched clear, magnificent with stars. The lantern Salomon now carried—he hadn’t thought to bring one, and his feet were bruised where he had stubbed them—brought hoarfrost into sight. Here and there a window shone or a man walked, but after the three left Confluentes they were wholly alone. The sound of their stumbling stride rang loud above the river’s susurrus.

  “We’d finished breakfast,” Salomon said. His voice had gone empty. Breath puffed spectral. “A courier had arrived yesterday before dark, but father was keeping a vigil at the church. Mother and I were asleep when he got back, and nobody else thought to tell him. He sent at once when he heard this morning.” Of course, Gratillonius realized. Apuleius was an early riser and immediately with his duties. “The man wasn’t at the hostel, he’d chosen to stay with somebody he knows here and it took a while to find him. Father was fuming a little. You know how he is—was when he got angry, soft-spoken as ever but the words came out clipped. It didn’t seem worth a fuss to me. He’d been feeling poorly the last couple of days, though; didn’t say much, but when he mentioned pains you always knew they were real. Well, the courier finally brought him a letter from the governor in Turonum. Father opened it and stood there reading. I saw him frown, purse his lips—then, oh, God, he buckled at the knees and fell. Just like that. He hit his head, not too hard, it barely bled, but he lay there gasping—quick wheezes, and in between them he didn’t breathe at all—and his eyes, his eyes were rolled back, blank. I saw the pulse in his throat. It was going like a hailstorm. We gathered around, tried to help, wanted to get him to bed. Mother sent a boy off after the physician, and then suddenly he didn’t breathe and his pulse didn’t beat and he was dead.”