The Dog and the Wolf

by Poul Anderson

  “What was in that letter?” asked Gratillonius, the single thing he could think of to ask.

  “Who aires?” Salomon cried. “Father’s dead!”

  Verania clutched her man’s hand very tightly.

  —Lamps and candles burned everywhere in the house in Aquilo. Rovinda had gotten Apuleius lifted to a couch and a blanket laid over the foulness of death. She had herself closed his eyes and cleansed the froth from his mouth. As Verania came in with Gratillonius and Salomon, Rovinda quickly drew the blanket across his face.

  “Mother, can’t I see him?” Verania sounded like a bewildered child.

  “Wait a while, dear,” the woman answered.

  Wait till the grimace has smoothed out and he’s expressionless, Gratillonius thought; but not till the corpse-bruises begin to show.

  Verania went to Rovinda’s arms. Salomon stood numbly aside. Slaves gaped in the background. The physician plucked Gratillonius’s sleeve. They withdrew to a corner.

  “God must love him,” said the physician low, “as well He might. I doubt that he felt or knew of his dying.”

  “It’s cruel for his family,” Gratillonius replied in the same undertone. “No warning. Struck down, senselessly; the end of their world, like that. ”

  “God’s will—”

  Gratillonius’s hand chopped air. Then he remembered he must not brush the saying aside. Who was he to accuse the Lord? Apuleius was wanted in Heaven. His kin and friends should be happy. Why was that never possible?

  “I’ll take over,” Gratillonius said. “Thanks for your concern. Rovinda’s brave, she’ll bear up.”

  She and Verania were murmuring between themselves. The mother beckoned Salomon over. Gratillonius felt hurt. Verania cast him a glance and it was healed. Naturally they needed a little time to themselves.

  His gaze drifted about. It caught a pair of wax tablets bound together, which somebody had picked up and put on a table. The dispatch. Gratillonius stepped over to read it. He saw terror on Verania as she observed, and cast her a reassuring smile. Ill-omened though the thing was, it could not be what had slain Apuleius.

  The message stood clear in shadows and highlights. It was a communication such as the governor’s office sent in multiple copies to local officials when important news had been received.

  A fresh horde of Germani was on the move. They were chiefly Ostrogoths out of those lands at the Danastris into which the Huns were pressing. At their head was the infamous warlord Radagaisus. They had crossed the Danuvius. Terrified swarms fled before them as they advanced on Italy.

  5

  In perfectly chaste wise, Procurator Bacca and the lady Runa had become well acquainted. He enjoyed her conversation and she his: much superior to any else in this provincial city. She was often a guest at his home, and he sometimes visited her to look at her work, calligraphic copying varied by desultory efforts to compile the annals of the Turones.

  After all, she was a lay sister among the nuns; furthermore, under Bishop Bricius the rules were considerably relaxed for both male and female religious communities. Runa lived comfortably enough for a person of her tastes, which had never run to sensuousness.

  “I asked you over this evening because I need your advice,” Bacca said after they had dined and gone to his scriptorium. They left the door open for propriety’s sake, but everybody knew better than to pass near. The room within was more plain than might have been awaited. Its only special contents were several handsome books, writings of Aristophanes, Ovidius, Catullus. Rain brawled through the murk outside.

  “Oh?” murmured Runa Seated on a cushioned bench, she smoothed her skirts. The gown was simple and modestly cut, as became a woman of her dedicated standing, but its rich dark material set off her white skin and complemented the high-piled raven hair. “I am honored. What is this about?”

  Bacca lowered his lankness to a stool facing her. “About the counsel I’ll give Governor Glabrio and, I trust, make him heed.”

  Runa kept an expectant look on him.

  “Have you heard?” he said. “Apuleius Vero, the tribune at Aquilo, has died.”

  “Really? Well, he was getting on in years, wasn’t he?” She inquired no further, though she added, “God have mercy on his soul.”

  “The question is, who should his successor be?”

  She flushed faintly. Her nostrils dilated. “A strong man, in that nest of troublemakers.”

  “Precisely. What would you say to Gaius Valerius Gratillonius?”

  “You joke!” she exclaimed, astounded.

  “For once, I do nothing of the sort,” he replied gravely. “See here. In view of the situation there, the mingled peoples, relationships, tensions, grudges, and factors unknown to us—wouldn’t any man of ours find himself in an impossible position? I wouldn’t want the job.”

  “Make them obey. Apuleius was always on Gratillonius’s side. A new tribune wouldn’t delay, argue, obstruct. If necessary, he’d call in troops.”

  Bacca sighed. “It isn’t that easy. Aquilo—Confluentes—is more important than you may realize.”

  “Because Gratillonius has made it a thorn in your side.”

  “That. But also because, in spite of everything we’ve done—I say this candidly, confidentially—he’s made it flourish. It grows. It’s a magnet for industrious immigrants; one way or another, legally or illegally, they’re coming in, and won’t meekly let themselves be displaced. A thorn? It should be a bulwark. God knows we need that.”

  She scowled and bit her lip.

  “He preserved us from the Scoti this past summer,” Bacca said; “but now the Ostrogoths are ravaging into Italy, and I wonder if He will vouchsafe us another miracle. He may have taken Apuleius away—without warning, I gather—as a sign that He won’t.”

  “Would you trust Gratillonius?” Runa demanded. “Dare you?”

  “What do you think? You’ve … known him well.” She dropped her glance and doubled her fists. “Set grievances aside,” Bacca urged. “Give me a totally honest opinion, no matter how it tastes in your mouth. This is for Rome.”

  She looked back at him. “How earnest you’ve become.”

  “Not a comedian tonight, my lady. Rome is my Mother. Is she still his?”

  Runa sat silent, as if listening to the rainstorm, until, grudgingly, she said, “He never caused me to think otherwise.”

  Bacca offered a flicker of a smile. “Thank you. I thought so myself, but wanted your confirmation.”

  “He’s … too stubborn. Utterly self-willed.”

  Bacca nodded. “It’s led him to the verge of insubordination, or beyond, over and over. But outright rebelliousness? Among his merits, set his lack of political experience and subtlety. He wouldn’t conspire against us, would he?”

  “No,” she fleered. “He isn’t that bright.”

  Bacca stared at the rain on the windowglass. It made the reflected lamplight shimmer. “I almost wish he would. What an Emperor he’d be.”

  She drew back on her seat. “Are you serious?”

  “Perhaps. Consider what he accomplished in Ys, and is accomplishing in Confluentes. I suspect that if he tried for the purple, I’d support him.”

  She peered at the door. Nobody stood in the corridor. Nevertheless she leaned forward and dropped her voice. “This is dreadfully dangerous talk.”

  “I trust you,” he said.

  Touched, she could only gulp and tell him, “Thank you.”

  Bacca’s fingers twitched. “We desperately need a leader strong, able, and—honest. Stilicho’s double games with the barbarians aren’t working.” He straightened. “Well,” he asked,, “do you then think we can get along with Gratillonius as our tribune?”

  “It would be difficult at best,” she warned. “You’d have to make concessions to him.”

  “That’s clear. In fact, we’ll have to give up our efforts to destroy him, and instead try convincing him we aren’t actually such bad fellows.” Bacca laughed. “I hope Nagon Demari wo
n’t be too disappointed.”

  XIX

  1

  Spring returned, made green the graves of winter and strewed them with flowers. Days grew longer than nights. Migratory birds trekked home.

  The Ostrogoths and their allies were devastating Italy. Where they did not reach, the fear of them did. Imperial agents went through the provinces, frantically seeking military recruits. They offered a bounty of ten solidi, three on enrollment, the balance on discharge after the peril was quelled—if it could be. Slaves got two solidi and their freedom.

  Few accepted in northern Gallia. Their own homelands were under attack. Saxon fleets swarmed oversea to loot and burn along the coasts; many crews went deep inland, and some began work on strongholds where they could stay through the year or beyond. The Picti and Scoti harried Britannia. Fugitives who got to Armorica said that King Niall’s successor stood high among the latter. Otherwise hardly any civilized ships stirred from port. Even fishermen dared not venture far; their poor catches joined with lost crops to spread hunger.

  A while after Easter, Nagon Demari arrived at Confluentes.

  Gratillonius ordinarily received visitors at home. It made for a congenial atmosphere as he talked with Osismiic chiefs, travelers from outside, or common folk who had problems. Besides, the large new basilica in Confluentes was only partly built. He thought it too risky to continue using the manor house outside the wall, no matter that nothing within approached its graciousness. As for the basilica in Aquilo, it was full of the homeless and the orphaned. Corentinus supported him in the idea that their needs outweighed the government’s.

  “I will not have that man in my house,” Verania said. She could be immovably decisive when she chose—occasions rare enough to warrant respect. Moreover, Gratillonius shared her feelings. He ignored her possessive pronoun. Between them such questions were meaningless.

  Thus he sent a message to the hostel. It was written, not verbal, so he could be sure it carried his exact words. “You will meet me in the basilica of Confluentes at noon.”

  Sounds of ongoing construction racketed in the room he employed. It was starkly whitewashed, with a concrete floor that was supposed to be tiled sometime. Its furnishings were a table with writing materials—wooden slabs, ink and quills, wax tablets, styluses—and a few stools. He did not rise when Nagon entered, and waited for the other man to give the first “Hail.” Thereafter he gestured at a seat.

  Nagon took it. Rage mottled his flat face. “Is this how you receive an officer of the Imperium?” he rasped.

  Gratillonius grinned. “You see for yourself that it is.”

  “Have a care. Be very careful.”

  “Watch your language. As tribune, I outrank you by quite a bit.”

  “That can be changed.”

  “Not by an errand boy. I won’t warn you again about curbing your tongue. What do you want?’

  Nagon’s lips moved and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times before he said, trembling, “I’m here about the taxes, of course.”

  “They’ll be paid.”

  “In the proper kind and amount, I trust. ”

  Gratillonius had expected something like this. “In gold of, uh, equivalent value, as we’ve been doing in part.’

  “Oh, no. No, sir! You’ve gotten too much leniency already. The basic payments are to be in kind as the law requires.”

  “The procurator’s office knows we aren’t yet prepared to spare that much food and manufactured goods. We can’t import them this year as we have done, when pirates bedevil the sea lanes and supply is short everywhere. It was a silly exercise anyway. What with the refugees we’re getting, we’ll skirt the edge of famine ourselves.”

  Glee glittered in the little pale eyes. “No excuse. The army can’t eat your gold. If you do not tender your lawful share, I shall have to institute collection proceedings.”

  “Such as rounding up children for the slave market? Will the army eat them?”

  “That’s enough.”

  “It certainly is. Now listen to me. Where are the solidi coming from to pay those enlistees the Imperium is trying to attract? We can help substantially with that. As a matter of fact, I mean to order an extra contribution from our treasury, if the procurator will accept the tax in money. You wouldn’t understand patriotism, Nagon. I can’t say whether your superiors do or not, but they understand business. They’ll agree. If the poison in you hasn’t addled your wits, you must know they won’t let you do your viper’s work among us. What did you come here hoping for? To scare a few women and children? To provoke men into rashness? You can’t. I’ll write to Turonum this afternoon, but I won’t trust you with the letter. Go away.”

  Nagon sprang up. Gratillonius rose too and bulked over him.

  “I’ll go,” Nagon chattered. “You’re happy, aren’t you? Oh, you’re enjoying yourself, persecuting me. You want to take my livelihood from me, don’t you, and laugh when my family starves. You want to drive me out of the world like you drove me out of Ys.”

  “Too bad I succeeded in that,” Gratillonius drawled. “You’d have gone down with the city.”

  Tears came forth. Nagon waved his fists. He shuddered and sobbed. “I’ll go. And Glabrio will scorn me and Bacca will patronize me and I’ll be a whipped dog. But not for long. Not for long. I’ll return, Gratillonius. And when I do, it will be your turn to howl. You’ll be sorry for your cruelty, but it will be too late. I’m not stupid, you know. I have a great deal of information about you and your friends. You’ll be helpless, Gratillonius. The whip will be across your heart then. Think about it—till I return.” He stormed from the room.

  2

  Flavius Vortivir, tribune at Darioritum Venetorum, was a hard man but righteous in his fashion. It had been said that he and Apuleius were the only senators in Armorica not corrupt; but Armorica didn’t have many. Though Gratillonius was only a curial, Vortivir received him on equal terms. He spoke for Confluentes and Aquilo, communities growing when others were shrinking, the see of one of Armorica’s few bishops.

  “We can set aside the old rivalries, I hope,”—those between the Osismii and the Veneti—said Gratillonius with a smile.

  “The newer ones are more difficult,” replied Vortivir with his usual lack of humor.

  Because it was a beautiful day in a year that was turning out generally cold and wet, they sat on the portico of his house. It was high enough on its hill to look over roofs, the southern city wall, and a mile to the landlocked, island-studded gulf into which the river emptied. Haze gave that water a mysterious shimmer, like a lake in a dream. Tales and songs among the tribespeople told how this had been dry land once, back when the Old Folk raised those avenues of tall stones which still brooded near here. But the sea had broken in. … Gratillonius strove not to remember Ys too keenly.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You lure commerce and—worse, much worse—men away from us, when they are sorely needed.”

  Gratillonius picked his words with care. “Sir, we do not lure. Whoever comes to us does it of his own choice.”

  “Not a choice the law always allows.”

  “We’re accused of harboring runaways. All I can reply is that we aren’t magicians, to hear men’s inner thoughts. Idlers, thieves, and ruffians don’t get leave to stay. If someone believes he can identify a person among us who belongs elsewhere, he is free to come try.”

  “Ha, I know how likely that is. A hard trip, considerable expense, and the man in question will have disappeared … till the searcher leaves, having met a hedge of pretended ignorance and a quagmire of pretended incompetence. You can uphold the law better than that.”

  “I have more urgent business than looking into private lives, and damned little staff to handle any of it for me. I admit we are taking in outsiders, refugees.”

  Vortivir nodded. “True. That much is well done of you. I’m not seeking a quarrel, Gratillonius. You are my guest, and your letter said you wanted to discuss a matter of public
concern.”

  “I do. It touches on a big reason why we seem to be lucky in Confluentes, and so draw settlers. That’s not happenstance.”

  “Your enlightened administration?” asked Vortivir, not quite sarcastically.

  “I make no claims about that. Also, please remember I’ve been the tribune for less than half a year. It’s longer than that since any raiders hit Osismia. Even the plague of them Rome’s now got hasn’t reached us yet.”

  Vortivir’s look grew somber. The Veneti had suffered. “Do you think that setback they took at your hands—four years ago, was it?—frightened them off for good? That’s not their way.”

  “Of course not. However, it’s given them a healthy respect for us. Saxons too; they heard what happened to the Scoti. Why should they walk into a bear’s den, when the rest of the Empire is easy pickings?”

  Vortivir studied Gratillonius for a space before he said, “They’re bound to test you again. Will the same … spontaneous gathering of wildly diverse groups … meet them?”