The Dog and the Wolf

by Poul Anderson

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I cannot leave my three cats behind. Who’d care for them?”

  Laughter cataracted from him. When its wildness was past, he knuckled his eyes and said, “Very well, fetch them along. I should in honor return this Pegasus I hired, too.”

  She went to her dwelling. “I’ll take them in a basket, to shield them from the rain.”

  “What about us?”

  At her door, she looked back, across the sprawled dead men. “It will wash us clean.”

  5

  The storm passed over. Eventide rested mellow. It tinted the battlements of Confluentes with gold. Swallows darted along the Odita.

  Having brought them to Gratillonius’s private room, Verania regarded her two drenched, hollow-eyed visitors and asked softly, “What is this?”

  “A terrible story,” Evirion said. “Best we tell your brother Salomon.”

  “It happens he’s here. I’ll go for him if you like. But—Nemeta, dear, we haven’t seen you in years. Be welcome. We’ll have a bath and a bed for you—oh, and supper, of course. Can you stay till your father returns? He’ll be so happy.”

  Nemeta shook her head. “I must be off.” Her glance went fearfully to the window. Low light made its glass shine sea-green. “Never can I spend a night here.” The cats she had released from the basket ceased sniffing about the room and sought her. “But can you take these from me?” she requested. “They’re housebroken and sweet.”

  “If you wish it, certainly. I’ll call Salomon.” Skirts rustled as Verania went out Nemeta squatted down to stroke and reassure her pets. Evirion prowled.

  Verania re-entered. “He’ll be here shortly,” she explained. “He was asleep. He stays with me when my husband is away. Not that I need be afraid of anything. Gratillonius wants to mark him out as—an heir to leadership. Our mother agrees.” Proudly: “People have started bringing disputes before him, and he’s active in the guard. But today he went hunting, the weather caught him, he came back exhausted.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Evirion. “Maybe you’d best withdraw.”

  Verania looked at him. “Nemeta will stay, won’t she?” When he nodded: “Then it shouldn’t be talk unfit for a woman to hear.”

  “It’s dangerous to know.”

  She flushed. “Do you suppose I won’t share any danger that touches my man? We’re close, he and I. Let me stay.”

  “Or she’ll have to get it from her brother,” Nemeta divined. “I’m sorry, Verania. We can certainly use your counsel.”

  Salomon appeared, hastily tunicked, hair uncombed and fuzz on his cheeks. But his youth had shrugged fatigue off and he was alert. “Nemeta! Evirion!” he cheered. “Why, this is splendid.” He paused. “No, it isn’t, is it?”

  “Close the door,” his sister told him.

  They heard the story. Never did they call the deed a crime.

  “Holy Georgios, help us,” Salomon prayed.

  “That horrible creature, Nagon,” sighed Verania. “Sick with his own venom.”

  “He was that, I suppose,” Evirion said. “He should have escaped while he could. But he went after Nemeta, and naturally I chopped him.”

  “God help me, I don’t think I can pray for him.”

  Salomon folded his arms and stared downward. “Never mind that now,” he said. “What should we do?”

  “We, Nemeta and I, we won’t stay,” Evirion promised. “Whether or not that fool priest makes it back, and he will, they’ll soon have a pretty good idea in Turonum of what went awry. We mustn’t get you fouled in their net. Give us a rest, a bite to eat, dry clothes, some provisions we can carry, and we’ll be off as soon as it’s dark.”

  “Nobody will know we were here,” Nemeta added. “We were two more wet people among the few in the streets. Your doorkeeper didn’t get a good look at me, and never met me before anyway.” She had, after all, brought a cloak for herself, and used the cowl to screen her face and distinctive hair. “Who’ll think to question him? I suppose he knows Evirion a little, but why should he remember what day he last saw him?”

  “Besides, he’s loyal,” Verania said. “My family’s treated its slaves like fellow children of God. … But into the wildwood, you two?”

  Salomon lifted his head. “Give Gratillonius time, and he may be able to negotiate a pardon,” he declared. “In any case, you’ve got shelter where the state can never find you.’

  “Where?” coughed Evirion.

  “With one of our brotherhoods. Rufinus’s old Bacaudae. They’ll be glad to take you in.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’ve been among them enough. Gratillonius wants everybody to get to know me, and me to know them. Come night, I’ll guide you.”

  XX

  1

  “You know why I’m here,” said Gratillonius. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “By all means,” replied Bacca cordially.

  They sat alone in his room of erotic books in Turonum. Outside, wind blustered. Glass panes flickered with cloud shadows.

  “My daughter—”

  “And her murderous accomplice.”

  Gratillonius’s eyes stung. “It never had to happen. She harmed nobody. I think she helped many. The country’s full of good little witches like her.”

  Bacca’s gaunt visage assumed sternness. “Your duty is to put a stop to that.”

  “Then every Roman official is derelict,” Gratillonius retorted. “I could find witches within five miles of here. So could you, if you’d take the trouble.”

  “We have more pressing concerns.”

  “Me too. I thought you wanted my goodwill.”

  “We did. I still do.” Bacca sighed. “Let me give you the background. Nagon was clever. He waited till I was out of the city, then approached the governor. Glabrio has never liked or trusted you.”

  How true, thought Gratillonius. That was why he had sought audience with the procurator instead. Not that Bacca was a friend either, but he seemed reasonable in his rascality.

  “He was quite willing to be persuaded,” the smooth voice continued. “One can imagine Nagon’s exhortation. ‘End the scandal of paganism and sorcery in the very family of a Roman tribune. It’s not only his flouting of law and religion, it’s his intransigence. Give him a sharp reminder that he must mend his ways. Humble him. Undermine him.’

  “They didn’t tell me about the decision. Glabrio says he wanted to avoid a futile dispute when his mind was made up. Confidentially, I suspect he was afraid I’d change it for him.”

  That also sounded true, Gratillonius thought. Glabrio had spite of his own to vent. Weak men are often vicious.

  “Once Nagon brought her back, publicly accused, it would be too late,” Bacca finished. “We would have no choice but to proceed against her. It was a poor return Nagon made me for my protection, I grant you.”

  Gratillonius’s heart thumped. “Well, how about repairing the damage?” he pressed. “Issue a civil pardon. Bishop Corentinus is ready to give absolution.”

  Bacca’s lips pinched together before he answered, “Impossible. That man murdered two soldiers and an officer of the state.”

  “She was innocent, helpless.” Heavily: “Let him stay outlawed.” It hurt Gratillonius to the point of nausea, but he had cherished no real hope for Evirion.

  “You have not been precisely zealous in organizing pursuit of him,” said Bacca.

  “How can I ransack the wilderness?”

  “You have men who live in it.”

  Gratillonius shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he declared with a slight, malicious pleasure. “I’m not allowed to, remember? I have been given no authority over those squatters.”

  “Very good!” laughed Bacca. “Then why are you so sure the girl is even alive?”

  “Let’s say I’m confident of God’s mercy and justice.”

  Gaze met gaze. Gratillonius knew that Bacca knew he got word from the forest. For the procurator to state it fo
rthrightly would mean scrapping the policy he had been at pains to get adopted.

  Bacca’s wry smile faded. “Corentinus cannot reconcile a pagan with Him,” he pointed out.

  “She would accept baptism.”

  “I suppose she would, as a matter of expediency. Later—who knows?—His grace might touch her. But it cannot be. She would have to appear in public. Otherwise, what practical difference would these maneuvers make? When she did, we would have to seize her. The case is that notorious. There is much rebelliousness in Armorican hearts these days. Sparing her would feed it like nothing else. No, reprieve is a political impossibility.”

  Gratillonius bent forward, elbows on thighs, hands clasped between knees, head low. “I was afraid of that. But I had to come try.”

  “I understand,” said Bacca gently. “Courage. Perhaps in a few years, when the sensation has died down, if things in general look less precarious, perhaps then—” He let the words die away.

  Gratillonius straightened. “You dangle that bait before me?”

  “It may be honest. We shall have to wait and see. At the moment, I cannot give you any promises other than—taking the pressure off you about this business … provided you cause no further questions about your loyalty to be raised.”

  “I won’t.” Gratillonius could not quite swallow the insult. “You snake, this is extortion.”

  Bacca seemed unoffended. “It’s for Rome,” he replied.

  2

  Autumn weather came earliest to the high midland of Armorica. First the birches grew sallow and their leaves departed on chilly winds, then red and brown and yellow rustled all over the hills. Ducks left the meres and the reeds around them brittled. The rivers seemed to run louder through gorges filling with shadow. Clear nights were crowded with stars; the Swan soared over the evenings and Orion strode up before dawn.

  Nemeta thanked Vindolenus and left him to get a bite of food and some rest in Catualorig’s house. It was a thirty-league trek the dour old Bacauda had made from the Confluentes neighborhood—thirty leagues for a bird, two or three times that on twisting trails or through tracklessness. Only once earlier had he been able to do it, carrying gifts and a message. He had his living to make; and Gratillonius did not share out the secret of where his daughter was. Vindolenus had taken her and Evirion there in the first instance, after Salomon brought them to him and asked they be given a refuge safely remote. In Roman eyes, men like this were still felons, unwise if they made themselves conspicuous. Some had scattered very widely, founding homesteads where no Armorican tribe would dispute it; but they kept in touch.

  Nemeta carried the letter outside. It was a day of pale sunlight and nipping breeze. Fallen leaves rattled over the clearing around the rude, sod-roofed cabin. Its pair of outbuildings crowded close, dwarfish. Rails marked off a fold. Chickens scratched in the dust. A rivulet gurgled and gleamed. Catualorig’s daughter returned sulkily from the excitement of the arrival to scrub clothes on the stones in its bed. From behind the cabin an ax thudded as her mother chopped firewood. The man and his two sons were about their tasks in the forest. It hemmed in the dwelling place and a tiny, hand-cultivated field. Height and hues cloaked the ruggedness of terrain, but the northward upslope was unmistakable.

  Nemeta found a log at the edge of the plot, sat down, untied the tablets and spread them on her lap. She had become quite adept in the use of a single hand and bare toes. Words pressed into wax were necessarily spare, and Gratillonius’s writing style was less than eloquent. Yet she read over and over:

  “My dear daughter, we are all well Food is short but nobody hungers too much. The barbarians are still bad but have not touched us here. Good news too. In August the Romans broke the invaders of Italy at last. Stilicho had collected many recruits, also Alan and Hun allies from beyond the Danuvius. He cut the barbarian supply lines and then killed them group by group. At last Radagaisus was captured and beheaded. We miss you and hope you are well. Your father. ”

  A finer imprint continued, news of people she knew and of everyday things. It ended: “We love you. God willing, we will yet bring you home. Greet Evirion. Verania. ”

  Nemeta rose, tucked the tablets close to her, and hurried off upstream. Somberness had left her face. She hummed a song children in Ys once sang when at play. Along the trail she spied the younger boy, herding the swine, and gave him a hail whose cheeriness astonished him.

  Shortly she heard the blunt noise of a mallet on wood. Another clearing opened before her. This one was minute, made where a brookside stand of shrubs could readily be removed. An uncompleted building occupied it. It too was small, of the primitive round form, though it would eventually boast a couple of windows with membranes and shutters. The soil was poor for wattle-and-daub, and Evirion built with stout poles, carefully chinked. The roof would be of turf, smokehole louvered; he was no thatcher, and besides, this would diminish the fire hazard. He stood on a ladder—a length of fir with the branches lopped to stubs, leaned against the wall—and pegged a rafter to a crossbeam. Like her, he wore a single garment of coarse wool, for him a kilt. Muscles coiled in view. His beard had grown out and his hair was a hayrick.

  “Evirion!” she cried. “A message—Vindolenus again—this time he brought us warm clothes and, and come read for yourself. ’Tis the most wonderful news.”

  “Hold,” he said, and finished securing the roughly shaped timber. Only then did he drop the hammer and climb down. “Well, well. So there is still a world out there. Ofttimes I’ve felt unsure.”

  “Take it. Read.” She thrust the tablets into his hands.

  He scanned them, laid them on the ground, and muttered, “Italy saved. Doubtless a fine thing, but much of it must lie in wreck by now.”

  “You don’t rejoice,” she said, crestfallen.

  He shrugged. “Why do you? We remain exiles.”

  “Oh—my father—”

  “Aye. You’re glad because this word gave him a little happiness.” Evirion smiled. “So should I be. He’s a good man—the best. Nor should I whine at my own fate.”

  Warmth swelled in her tones. “You never do. You’re too strong for that.”

  “In some ways. In others—Well, brooding on such things weakens a man by itself.”

  She waved at the house. “Behold what you’ve done. And in all weathers, too, this harsh year.”

  “Ha, I’d better. Winter draws nigh.”

  “You’ll outpace it. Once begun, you’ve raced ahead like wildfire.” He could accomplish little until Vindolenus had brought the tools he requested from Gratillonius. Catualorig’s were few, crude, and often needed by him. The settler and his sons lent a hand when necessary, but for the most part had no time to spare for it. They likewise must prepare for winter.

  “Aye, ’twill be ready within another month, if my luck holds,” he said. “But I’d fain also make it a little comfortable.”

  “That can come later. I can scarce wait to move in.”

  They shared the cabin with the family and, at one end of it, two cows. The dwellers were friendly enough but had no conversation in them. After dark, they snuffed the tallow candles and went to bed on skins spread over juniper boughs on the earthen floor. Then the only light was from coals in the banked firepit. Air was thick with smells of smoke, grease, dung, beast, man. When Catualorig mounted his wife, nobody could sleep till he was done, though that didn’t take long. The daughter was apt to giggle at those sounds.

  Nemeta and Evirion had quickly decided they didn’t want to be immediate neighbors. Fortunately, the yard lacked much space for another structure. It would have been ill done to offend people who were so kindly and who loved Gratillonius themselves.

  “’Twill never be like what you had in Ys, nor even later by the Stegir,” Evirion said, “but let me give you something better than a cave.”

  “Could I but help!” Her pleasure blew away on the wind that soughed around. “It hurts being useless.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Wit
h this arm? And none of my arts?” She dared not practice her small witcheries. Thinly populated though the hills were, word of it would spread, and in time get to Roman ears. Her whereabouts betrayed, she might flee onward, but Gratillonius would be destroyed, with all that he had labored for. Nemeta had not offered the Three as much as a chant. That could have disturbed the inhabitants, who sacrificed to spirits of wood and water and to whom Ys was a tale of doom.

  “You are not useless,” Evirion told her. “You do well with your single hand. They have gain of your aid. You lighten their lives with your stories and poems. You bring me my midday food as I work, and talk and sing to me. Without that cheer, I’d lag far behind.”

  “The most I can tender you,” she answered sadly, “who lost everything because of me.”

  “That’s just as false,” he blurted. “You’re enough, and more.”

  “Oh, Evirion—”

  He moved to hug her. It would have been chaste, but she slipped aside. His arms fell.

  “I’m sorry” he said dully. “I forgot. The curse of what happened that day by the sea.”

  She hung her head and dug a toe into the earth. “The Gods have not healed me of it,” she whispered.

  “Those Gods?” He curbed his scorn and attempted gaiety. “Well, anyhow, soon you’ll have your own house.’

  She looked up, half alarmed. “Nay, ours.”

  He let the mask drop from him. Pain roughened his voice. “So I believed too. But I’ve thought more, and, and may as well tell you now. This hut—Belike ’twould be too much for my strength, living with you as brother and sister in a palace. In a single space, impossible. This shall be yours alone.”

  “But what will you do?” she wailed.

  He forced a grin. “I’ll fettle me. Our present lodging can easily become a merry place.”

  She stared.

  “That’s a sprightly young chick Catualorig’s fathered,” he said, “and she’s been giving me a twinklesome eye, and he’s already hinted he’d liefer have me than a ruck of woodland louts beget his grandchildren.”

  “What? ”

  He heard and saw she was appalled. Hastily, he said, “Ah, I tease you,” then could not resist adding, “Mayhap.”