“It could,” Gratillonius answered.
“The law keeps the tribes disarmed. It has to, or they’d soon cut the Empire apart, feuding with it and each other.”
“A citizen has a right to defend himself against a robber. I see nothing wrong with encouraging him to learn how to doit.”
“That depends.” Abruptly Vortivir spat off the portico, turned squarely to the other, and snapped, “How long shall we chop words? It’s obvious why you’re here. You’ve sounded me out in the past, and inquired about me, same as you have everybody else you approached or will be approaching.”
“I wouldn’t want … to speak sedition, sir. Nor tempt anyone to.”
“Well, I’m not the kind who’d tempt you! I’ll state the facts myself. You have these irregular reserves, or whatever you call them. It’s debatable whether their existence quite violates the law, and if so, how much. But the question had better not come before the Imperium. Their activities have spread well into the rest of Armorica, mostly the back country but also a number of small coastal settlements. You want to weave men of all the tribes into this loose network of yours. You hope for my sanction, or at least for my blind eye turned your way. Correct?”
“Correct, sir. The aim is purely defensive. That includes suppression of domestic banditry. Together the tribes can do what none can do separately. For instance, you Veneti are a race of seamen.” (As the Ysans were.) “You’ve got boats to keep watch well offshore and carry back warning. You’ve got ships to bring help to where it’s needed. Most of that help could come from inland. For instance, if you were in touch with Redonic members of the association—”
Vortivir lifted a hand. “That’s clear. Let’s spare the time it takes. There will be plenty of details that are not clear. This doesn’t come as any staggering surprise to me, you know. I keep reasonably well informed about events, and about the men who make them happen. If anything, I’m a little surprised you haven’t seen me earlier.”
“There was a dispute with a couple of Namnetic headmen—”
“Never mind. Tell me about it later. For the moment: Gratillonius, you not only have my sanction. Provided you can settle a few remaining doubts in my mind, and I’m pretty sure you can, you will have my active cooperation.”
Gratillonius’s hard-held breath burst from him. “Sir, this, this is wonderful!”
“I regard it as my duty,” Vortivir said. “That law about armament tamed the old savages. Today it’s letting new savages at the throat of Rome.”
3
A Saxon flotilla forced the passage of the bay where Gesocribate stood. The barbarians overwhelmed the garrison, scaled the walls, looted, raped, killed for two days, finally set fire to the city and vanished back up the Britannic Sea.
There was nothing the Osismii could do except tender help afterward. A seaport populated largely by mariners who came and went, therefore under closer than ordinary official surveillance, Gesocribate had been outside the native defense movement; and it lay alone at the far end of the peninsula. Its example did jolt many Armoricans into joining the brotherhoods, and these grew more openly militant.
In Confluentes, Evirion raged. It was bad enough that he was penned there, his ship idled, himself likewise as well as tortured equally by boredom and by fretting over the future of his business What had now happened was a blow to one of his most important harborages and marts. If the home guard could have been there! If he could have been in the front line, splitting enemy skulls!
Occasional paramilitary drills gave him something to do, but redoubled his frustration. He could find no work unless it be as a common laborer, and he would not stoop to that. Nor could he, without fatal damage to his authority over his crew, should Brennilis ever put to sea again. He drank too much, got into fights, consorted with whores, lay hours in his own bed staring at the ceiling, slouched sullenly around the towns or along the roads. For reasons obscure to himself he shunned the forest. Yet that was at last where he went.
Summer was then well along, a bleak one this year, chill rains and fleeting pale sunshine. However, for a time it grew hot. Through several days the weather smoldered with never a cloud; folk at night tossed sweating under the weight of air, while crickets outside shrilled mockery. Finally thunderheads massed in the south. Their bases were caverns of purple darkness, their heads noonday white until the sky dimmed. Slowly the overcast thickened. As yet no wind stirred on earth. In heat and silence, the land lay waiting.
Four mounted men rode past Aquilo and up the river road to Confluentes. They led one horse whose saddle was empty. Hoofs clattered on the new stone bridge. They did not enter the city, but passed around and took the dirt road along the Stegir.
That drew remark from onlookers. Their hails got no response. The party trotted onward from the northwest tower, by the old manor and its orchard, through the lately cleared fields beyond, until they reached the present edge of the woods in that direction and disappeared within.
A man came into a tavern, excited, and told his friends what he had seen. The place was tiny, a room in the owner’s home; everybody heard. “Two soldiers they were, armored, and two civilians, one of them pretty well dressed, the other a monk or something. Been traveling hard, from the look of them. What could they want?”
“Government business?” wondered a drinker. “But why didn’t they stop off at the hostel in Aquilo? My brother works there, and he was telling me this very morning how they haven’t had anybody except postal couriers for—I forget how long. So those fellows just got here, and if you saw aright, they didn’t even stop to freshen up.”
“Ah, these be strange times,” muttered a third man. “Holy Martinus, watch over us.”
Evirion put down his half-emptied cup, left his bench, and hurried out. “Hoy, what the devil?” sounded at his back, but he simply broke into a run when he reached the door.
At his house he shooed away the servant who was cleaning it. Once alone, he took from a chest a pair of knives, his sword, a crossbow such as mariners favored, and a case of bolts for it. A long cloak concealed them while he thrust his way through traffic. A wake of indignation and profanity roiled behind him.
Outside the east gate clustered a number of shops denied space within because they were noisy or smelly or the owners could not afford it. Among them was a livery stable. Evirion selected what he deemed was the least jaded of its three horses, and did not haggle but paid over at once the asking price of a day’s rent, in coin. “That should make you outfit her fast,” he told the groom. “Failing it, I have the toe of my boot.”
If he pushed the sorry nag hard, she might well founder on him. He made the best speed that prudence, not mercy, allowed. It was some slight help for the seething in him that the Romans wouldn’t expect pursuit. You couldn’t generally gallop along the woodland trails anyway. Their gloom was dense this day., except where the twisting course brought him near the Stegir.
4
Thunder rolled down the sky. Cold gusts went like surf through the treetops. Clouds decked the sun with darkness, but a weird brass-yellow light came through, pervasive as if without any one source, and sheened on the river.
Nemeta stepped from her cabin as the men drew rein. For an instant she surveyed them, and they her. Two were soldiers, cavalry, though not heavy lancers. Helmets and coats of ringmail shone hard above leather breeches and boots. Their swords were long. Axes were sheathed under their saddlebows and shields hung at their horses’ breechings. One led a riderless animal.
On their left a lean man with an undershot jaw sat awkwardly, not used to riding and sore from it. He too was trousered, in cloth, but had sandals on bare feet and a brown robe that must be his only everyday garment, pulled up past his knees. Above a short beard, the front half of his scalp was shaven, the hair making a ruff behind. He pressed a small casket close against his side.
The fourth, on the right and somewhat in the lead, wearing blue linen beneath a fine tunic, unarmed aside from a knife—
> “Nagon Demari,” she said. Dismay shook her voice.
The stocky man skewered her with his gaze. “You are Nemeta, daughter of Gratillonius,” he snapped.
“Aye,” she replied unthinkingly in Ysan. “What would you of me?”
“Answer me, in Latin.”
She braced her thin frame. “Why should I?”
“Obduracy will make matters worse for you,” he told her, unrelenting as the thunder. “Name yourself to these men.”
She moistened her lips before she uttered, “I am … Nemeta,” in their language.
“Bear witness,” Nagon ordered his band.
Nemeta half raised her useable hand. The wind tossed stray red locks around the white face. “What is this?” she cried. “How do you know me, Nagon? I was a young girl when—when—” She faltered.
He smiled with compressed lips. “You know me. ”
“All Ys knew you. And since then—”
“I have gathered information, piece by piece in these past years. I am a patient man when there is need to be.”
“What do you want?”
They stared and stared at her. Nagon squared his shoulders, drew breath, and intoned against the wind: “Nemeta, daughter of Gratillonius, you are a pagan and a witch. Your unholy rites are banned by the law. Your diabolical practices have endangered souls for far too long. Some may already be in hell because of you. By authority of the governor of this province, I arrest you, for conveyance to trial at Caesarodunum Turonum.” Thunder followed, louder and nearer.
She took a step back, halted, stiffened, and stammered, “This, this is … preposterous. I am the daughter of the King—of the tribune.’
A laugh slapped at her. “He has indeed been negligent.” Sternly: “Make no more trouble for him and yourself. Come, Here is a horse for you. Will you need help in mounting?”
“Hard rain any minute now, sir,” a soldier said. “Why don’t we wait it out in the cabin?”
His companion flinched and exclaimed, “Not in a witch’s house!”
“We go straight back,” Nagon commanded. “We are on the Lord’s business. Come, woman.”
“No, I won’t!” Nemeta yelled. She forked the three middle fingers of her hand and thrust it at them. “I am a witch! Begone, or I’ll strike you down! Belisama, Lir, and Taranis, hear!”
“Witness,” Nagon told the others. His voice crackled with exultation. The soldiers stirred uneasily in their seats. He turned to the fourth member of the group. “Brother Philippus.”
“I am a priest, my child,” said the tonsured man to Nemeta. It was hard to hear him through the rising storm. “An exorcist.” He opened the casket and took forth a scroll. Without a grasp on its reins, his horse stamped and tossed its head. “Your poor wickedness has no power against the Lord God and this, His holy word. Attempt no spells. They can only bring a punishment more severe.”
Nemeta whirled and sprinted aside. “After her!” Nagon shouted. The soldiers spurred their mounts. Before she reached the brake, they were on either side of her. She was lost between cliffs of height. One man nudged her roughly with his foot. She stumbled back from between them. Nagon and Philippus closed in too.
She slumped. “Again, four of you,” she whispered. Her head sank till they saw just the fiery hair.
“Resist no more,” said the priest, “and none shall harm you.”
“That is for her judge to decide,” Nagon crooned.
Lightning flared. Hoofbeats answered thunder. A horse came around the bend of the trail, lathered and lurching. When its rider yanked on the reins, it halted at once and stood with head a-droop. Breath wheezed in froth.
“Hold on, there!” bellowed he who sat it.
They gaped. Nemeta raised her eyes and gave a kind of moan. “What is this?” Nagon demanded.
“They’re … taking me away.” Nemeta’s words blew frail on the wind.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Evirion. He brought up the crossbow he had had on his left arm, cocked and loaded. “Stop right there.”
A soldier cursed. Philippus called on God. Nagon reddened and whitened with fury. “Are you mad?” he choked. “We’re agents of the state.”
“Has she summoned a demon to possess you?” quavered the exorcist.
Nemeta reached resolve. She took a pair of steps from her captors toward the mariner, stopped, and said almost quietly, “Evirion, don’t. Go. You can’t help me this time.”
Death was on his countenance. “The hell I can’t. Come here, woman. You others stay back. The first of you that moves, I’ll drop.”
Nagon grinned his hatred. “And what about the next?” he challenged.
“Please, Evirion,” Nemeta begged. “I don’t want you beheaded too.”
“It could be worse than that, from what I’ve heard,” the big man said. “Come here. ”
She shook her head.
“All right,” Evirion snarled. “I’m coming after you.”
He sprang from his horse and advanced on her.
“Get him!” Nagon screamed.
The cavalrymen drew blade. A charger neighed. Both boomed past the prisoner and down on the seaman.
Evirion pulled trigger. The bow rang and thumped, the bolt whistled through the wind. The man on the left let go of his sword and toppled. He struck soddenly and lay still in an outwelling of blood. Lightning made his mail shimmer. His horse galloped on, crashed into the brush, was gone.
The second was already at Evirion. A stout crossbow could put a shaft through armor, but took time to load and set. Even to a trained infantryman, a mounted attack was a terrifying sight. Evirion barely dodged aside. He threw his bow. The heavy stock struck in the midriff. The rider did not fall. For a moment, though, he lost control. Instead of taking the chance to run, Evirion darted in. His sword hissed free. A hoof nearly smote him. He got behind and swung.
Hamstrung, the horse screamed, kicked air, plunged and scrabbled. “You swine!” its master shrieked, and threw himself off to the ground. The horse reeled aside, fell, lay thrashing and screaming. Its rider had kept hold of his sword. Evirion pounced like a cat before his opponent was afoot. They went down together. The heel of Evirion’s left hand smashed the soldier’s nose from beneath. Suddenly that face was a red ruin. The man jerked once and died.
Evirion bounced to a crouch. The encounter had passed in a whirl. The priest clung to the neck of his panicky, rearing mount. Nagon was in little better case. His eyes darted, found Nemeta still frozen. He writhed from the saddle, thumped to earth in a heap, was immediately up and on the run, toward the woman. His knife gleamed forth.
“Nemeta!” Evirion roared, and plunged toward her. She came aware and leaped. Nagon was almost there. He meant to take her hostage or kill her, Evirion knew; no matter which. Nagon’s left hand snatched out and caught her by the hair. She jerked to a halt. With a whoop, he pulled her into stabbing distance. She caught that wrist in the crook of her left arm and her teeth. She fell, dragged it down. Her skeleton right arm flopped at his ankles.
Evirion arrived. His sword sang below the lightning. It thwacked as it bit into the neck. Blood spouted. Nagon went to his knees. “Oh, Lydris,” bubbled from his mouth—the name of his wife. He crumpled on his face and scrabbled weakly for a while. Blood flowed from him slower and slower, out into an enormous puddle whose red caught the lightning-light.
Evirion knelt and held Nemeta close. The blood that had gushed over her smeared across him. “Fare you well?” he asked frantically in Ysan. “Are you hale, my darling?”
“Aye.” The answer came faint. “Not hurt. But you?” Her eyes found his.
“I was the quickest of them.” He helped her to rise. She leaned on him, tottered, and sank down once they were out of the pool.
“I’m well, but—but my head swims—” She lowered it between her knees.
The exorcist’s horse had thrown him. Dazed more by horror than impact, he groped backward from the red-painted man who turned his way. He lifted his ar
ms as if in prayer. “Please, no,” he begged. “I belong to the Church.”
Evirion pointed. “Go,” he said. “Upstream. Don’t turn around till… till sundown.”
“No, not alone at night in the wilderness!”
“’Twon’t hurt you. Use this house if you like.” Evirion’s laugh clanked. “You shouldn’t fear witchcraft, should you, priest? But I don’t want you here before dark. Tomorrow, if you can’t remember the trails, follow the river to Confluentes. Go!” He made one threatening stride. Philippus whimpered and scuttled off.
Evirion went about securing things. His jade had stood numbly throughout. He cut the throat of the crippled charger. The priest’s gelding and the remount were still close by, somewhat calmed. They shied from him, but he caught the reins of first one, then the other, as thickets slowed their escape, and they let him tie them to branches. He collected weapons, washed them in the river, bundled everything in his cloak. The wind blew still stronger and louder. Lightning went in flares and sheets, thunder crashed, a deeper rushing noise told of rain oncoming.
By the time he was through, Nemeta had recovered. She went to him and laid her cheek against his breast. His arms enclosed her. “Evirion, what now?” Her tone still shook. “My father—”
“He’s gone on one of his trips,” the man told her. “I’d guess Nagon knew he would be, and timed himself for it.”
A ghost of joy lilted. “Well do the Gods stand by us! Nobody can accuse my father of aught.”
“They’ll be after you and me. Let’s begone. Here we’ve two good steeds.”
“Whither?”
“I know not. The forest?”
She looked up. A steadiness to match his came into her. “Nay, not at once. We needn’t blindly bolt. In Confluentes may be some help. At least, he—my father has the need and right to learn what truly happened.”
“Hm—Aye. A sound thought. Well, come, then. ’Tis a long ride, and the earlier we begin, the better.”
She disengaged from him, moved toward the horses, stopped. “My cats!”
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