The centurion returned the gesture. Gratillonius reined his stallion in, wheeled, and drew alongside, so that he and the centurion rode almost knee to knee. A small, homely squeak of saddle leather wove itself through the footfalls at their backs. The centurion was lean and dark-haired, but with skin that would have been fair if less weatherbeaten. The civilian on his farther hand was gangly and blond, well clad for travel, bearing somehow the look of a city man though obviously fit for a journey like this.
“Hail,’ Gratillonius said, “and welcome to Confluentes.”
“Hail,” the centurion replied brusquely. Both men gazed hard at the newcomer.
“I am Valerius Gratillonius. You might call me … the headman here. When I heard of your approach I hurried to meet you.”
“You, Gratillonius?” exclaimed the civilian. He collected his wits. “This is unexpected, I must say.”
“I’m sure you’re aware the situation here is, hm, peculiar in many ways.”
“Starting with that weapon of yours,” the centurion said.
“These are dangerous times. Most men go armed.”
“I’ve noticed. That’s part of what we’ve come about.”
The pain of it jagged through Gratillonius. My brother of the legion, our legion, do we have to spar like this? Why? How have they fared all these years in Isca Silurum? Do you know if my father’s house still stands and who holds the land that was his? What has it meant to you, bearing your eagle from Britannia after four hundred years? Couldn’t we sit down over a cup or twenty of wine—I have a little of Apuleius’s Burdigalan left, I’d gladly break it out for you, centurion—and tell each other how it’s been, how it is?
“On behalf of Constantinus,” he said coldly.
“The Augustus,” replied the civilian.
“Let’s try not to quarrel,” said Gratillonius. “May I ask your names?”
“Valerius Einiaunus,” the civilian answered, “tribune of the Emperor for affairs in this part of Armorica.”
My gens, Gratillonius thought. It doesn’t mean anything, of course, hasn’t for centuries, except—except that when Romans were newly settling into Britannia, a man of the Valerii became the patron of our ancestors; and both their houses bore his name ever afterward, along with Belgic names they tried to make Latin; and now we have both forsaken Britannia.
“Cynan,” the centurion introduced himself, and blinked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Gratillonius brushed air with his hand and stared elsewhere. “Surprise. I used to know somebody of that name. Are you by any chance a Demetaean?”
“I am.” As Cynan who marched to Ys and died there had been.
Gratillonius forced himself to meet the blue gaze. “What’s your cohort, centurion?”
“The seventh.”
It would be. My own. It would be.
“Well, I’ve had reports of your vexillation for a while,” Gratillonius said. “You’ve not met much friendliness, have you? It’s a touchy business. I’ll do my best for you, and hope we can talk frankly and reach agreement.”
Cynan jerked a thumb backward. “Rustics like them have dogged us since we left Redonum,” he said. “They turn back at the next village, but always there’s a fresh bunch of louts, and nothing but surliness from anybody. Often jeers, pretty nasty ones, and even rocks and offal thrown at us. It’s been a job, keeping my men from retaliating.”
Einiaunus’s look lingered on Gratillonius. “They’re as many as the Emperor felt he could spare for this mission,” he said. “If necessary, they should be enough to cut their way back to him.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Gratillonius replied around the fist inside his throat. “The Armoricans—But we’ll talk.” He regained fluency. “First let’s get you settled in. I’m sorry I can’t offer you hospitality myself, but my wife is very near her time, and besides, it’s better that all of you keep close together. That strikes out the hostel in Aquilo too, I think. It couldn’t hold near this many, and there’s no campground nearby. I’ve arranged for you as best I could, and—if you don’t mind—we’ll improvise quarters in the basilica of Confluentes. It’s unfinished, but a solid block. I’ve had boughs brought in for men to sleep on, and a couple of real beds in rooms of their own. As soon as you’re ready, we’ll talk.”
“You seem more reasonable than I’d been led to expect,” Einiaunus said. “That augurs well for everybody.”
Abruptly Gratillonius could no longer keep up the pretense. He snapped off a laugh. “Put down your hopes,” he said. “I mean to tell you the truth.”
2
The long day of Armorican summer wore on. Men and women of Confluentes went about their work. The crowd that gathered around the basilica was mostly from outside, yeomen, tenants, tribesmen, a number of forest dwellers. They stood, or sat on the cobbles, or wandered about, hour after hour. They spoke mutedly among themselves, ate and drank what city folk brought them, sometimes tossed dice or arm wrestled or listened to someone who made music. As their toil ended, more and more Confluentians and Aquilonians joined them, and seemed to take from them the same implacable earthy patience. The westering sun cast beams that flared off weapons.
In the monastically austere room that Gratillonius used for private conferences, Einiaunus met with him, Bishop Corentinus, and youthful Salomon Vero. Cynan was there because Gratillonius insisted. At the same time Gratillonius had declined a suggestion that he and Einiaunus speak alone. Though the western window was blank with radiance, twilight crept up over them.
Einiaunus straightened. “The documents, the decree, I have brought for you to inspect,” he said. “But since you asked, I’11 first deliver the message orally. That won’t be hard. The requirements of the Augustus are simple and just.”
Blood throbbed in Salomon’s countenance. “Merely that we take a hand in his usurpation,” he sneered.
Einiaunus and Cynan bridled. “Hush, my son,” admonished Corentinus.
Einiaunus eased a little. “Thank you, your reverence,” he said. After drawing breath: “For you Armoricans, obedience is only prudent. In fact, this is such an opportunity that you should be filling your churches to thank a generous God. You’ll gain pardon for past offenses and be at the forefront of glory.” Into skepticism: “Everywhere Constantinus is victorious. As I left Turonum to come here, he and his main body were departing for Lemovicium. The garrison there, that far ahead of his advance, it had already expelled Honorius’s government and called on him to reign.”
Corentinus shook his shaggy head like an old bull. The shaven brow glimmered among shadows. “We saw Maximus come and go,” he sighed, “and before him Magnentius, and—God alone knows what the outcome of this will be. But I cannot believe He looks kindly on the warfare of brother against brother.”
“It is not!” Einiaunus denied. “It’s to raise up the one man who can save Rome.”
“And therefore he pulled the last legions out of Britannia,” Gratillonius said. The words coughed forth like vomit, and as bitter. “Therefore he left his homeland, and yours, and mine, naked to the wolves.”
“The legions will return, redoubled in strength,” Einiaunus vowed.
“I think not. The Twentieth never did. It’s the Saxons who’ll return, the Picti, the Scoti, the darkness.”
“Enough of your nightmares. Let me state my message.”
“Hear him,” Corentinus said.
Encouraged, Einiaunus smoothed his tone: “You especially should be grateful, Gratillonius. When the governor of Lugdunensis Tertia exchanged letters with the Augustus, and later when they met in Turonum, what he urged was your arrest and execution as a rebel.”
Gratillonius snorted contempt. “And he got disappointed.”
Corentinus frowned and made a warning gesture.
“The Emperor was merciful,” Einiaunus persisted. “He was prepared to believe you were driven to desperate measures by the failure of Honorius and Stilicho to protect Armorica—precisely the failure that
Constantinus Augustus will correct. He’s willing to grant you and those who follow you complete amnesty.”
“And in return,” Gratillonius growled, “I give over to him our treasury, and disband the brotherhoods, and order the Armoricans to go along with his conscription of them for his war.”
Einiaunus showed surprise. “How can you know this?”
“Word reaches me. Constantinus has sent out a few parties like yours to other areas. Smaller and less well-armed, to be sure.”
“The Armoricans blocked the roads as soon as they knew, and turned them back,” Salomon exulted. “One party that refused to go away is dead.”
Einiaunus and Cynan sat speechless.
“You see,” Gratillonius hammered, “our men don’t want to leave their country unguarded, like Britannia, while they fight on alien soil for a usurper, like you.”
Cynan opened his mouth and snapped it shut again.
“I hoped you could bring them to reason,” Einiaunus said slowly.
“To submission, you mean,” Gratillonius answered. “Well, if I wanted to I couldn’t. Not any more. They’ve had their fill. And I don’t want to. I’ve had my fill.”
Corentinus leaned forward. “Has it occurred to you, Einiaunus,” he asked softly, “that Governor Glabrio knew this is how things are, and misled your Emperor?”
“Why on earth would he?” the tribune retorted.
“For revenge on us in Confluentes.”
“—Maybe.’ The tone crispened. “But you are in a state of insurrection here, you and your Bacauda army. Constantinus can no more tolerate that than Honorius can. And Constantinus is stronger.”
“He is not,” Gratillonius said.
Einiaunus stared. Cynan sucked in a breath, narrowed his eyes, leaned forward.
“You came with your legionaries in the hope you’d frighten us into submission,” Gratillonius began to explain.
“Or shame you into it,” Einiaunus interrupted.
“God will judge where the most shame ought to lie,” Corentinus said. “But did I hear you forcing that indignation into your voice, my son?”
Gratillonius decided to ignore the exchange. He went on: “Glabrio and Bacca suppose that we, in this community they suppose is a backwater, don’t understand the true situation. They expect the appearance of a legionary vexillation will overawe us.” My legion, twisted within him. It was my legion once. “Well, they’re mistaken. We’re quite adequately informed.”
“How?” asked Cynan. Did the sound betray pain of his own?
Gratillonius spoke starkly. “Armorica is still attached to the rest of Gallia, and Gallia to the rest of the world. People still go to and fro, traders, couriers, ordinary folk on their private affairs, and others less respectable. They’re apt to observe more, with more shrewdness, than their overlords imagine. Over the years, I’ve made my connections among them.” Mostly, Rufinus made them for me. “And then there is the Church, a network from end to end of the Empire. We have our friends in the Church, we Armoricans.
“So we know what maybe Constantinus himself doesn’t really know, that he isn’t an advancing conqueror, he’s a reckless gambler. Only look at everything he has to take into account, prepare for, try to cope with as he meets it.
“The Germani are in Gallia, in huge and growing numbers. We’ve turned them southward, but that just makes matters worse for anybody whose fate depends on controlling what happens. Constantinus has got to maintain strength against them. He has got to come to some kind of terms with them. That alone will take half or more of his attention, his resources.
“Arcadius in Constantinople is a sluggard, a fool, and an invalid who’s not likely to live much longer. His Empress—daughter of a Frankish general—supplied the backbone, but she’s dead now and he’s the puppet of his praetorian prefect, who hasn’t got Stilicho’s forcefulness. Stilicho hasn’t dropped his old ambitions. He’s negotiating with the Goths again, and my sources don’t believe it’s anything straightforward. My guess is that he wants them to occupy Greece while he invades the Eastern Empire farther north. What will come of that, if it happens, God alone can foretell. Constantinus certainly can’t. But hell face the consequences.
“And will Stilicho forever continue the fiction that he acts on behalf of Honorius? Rumors fly that he means to seize the throne of the West—the thrones of West and East both-—in the name of his son. If he does, Constantinus will have that problem. If he does not, or if his enemies at court bring him down, Constantinus will have a different but equally dangerous problem.
“No, your self-proclaimed Emperor has far too much else on his hands to pursue this matter of Armorica’s denying him. You were sent with the idea that we don’t know this and you could take charge here. You’ve already seen how the mass of the people feel about that. Now I’ve told you what we, their leaders, know, and what we intend to do and not do.
“Take your soldiers back, Einiaunus. You’d have had to quite soon anyway. Your Constantinus needs every man he can scrape up.”
Gratillonius’s throat felt rough, his mouth dry. His heart thudded. He longed for a strong gulp of wine. But he must keep his Roman stoicism until he could be by himself.
Einiaunus had turned white. “You forget one thing,” he thrust forth. “Law. Over and above any single Emperor, the state. I call on you in the name of the law, at least to lay down your arms.”
Corentinus cast a glance at Gratillonius and replied for him, “Let us not waste time disputing which party is in the worst violation. Without righteousness, justice, the law has lost its soul. It’s no more than a walking corpse.”
Gratillonius rallied. “Never mind catchwords,” he said. “The fact is that this last demand has broken us of tameness. We will not give up our right of self-defense. We will not take part in your damned civil war.”
“Then you support Honorius.” Einiaunus slumped.
“Call it what you like,” Gratillonius said, suddenly weary.
Corentinus lifted a hand. “Our trust is that we support Rome, and Christendom,” he said.
“You and your pagans?” Einiaunus gibed in his despair.
“Let’s have done,” said Gratillonius. “Go home. … No, go back, back to your Emperor. You’ve left your home to the barbarians.”
Cynan stirred. “Watch your tongue, fellow,” he rasped.
Gratillonius cast him half a smile. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “This isn’t so easy for you, is it?”
“I have my duty, sir.”
“And I have mine … I’ll go, now, and talk to the people outside, and have rations brought you. Tomorrow you start back. I’ll give you an escort as far as Redonum, one that ought to act as a safe conduct. Salomon.”
“Sir?” said the young man.
“You collect a squadron for this and lead it. Show your standard in the van, every mile you go.”
Reluctance: “That’s hard duty, sir. Not the danger, I don’t suppose there will be any, but—”
“You have your orders,” Gratillonius declared. “It’s part of learning to be a king.”
3
That night Verania was delivered of a daughter. Her husband kept watch at her door till he heard it was well with them, then went in and kissed her.
He returned a few hours past sunrise. This year workmen had completed the addition of a solarium to their house. Glass had become costly, but the gift rejoiced her, she who was so much a child of light. Gratillonius found her there, resting in a chair with arms and reclined back and soft upholstery which he had made for her himself. He had also made the crib beside her, and carved it with birds and flowers. A maid sat in attendance, spinning yarn. Marcus was outdoors playing, as beseemed a healthy three-year-old.
Verania had a book on her lap, her beloved Georgics of Vergilius; she had inherited her father’s library. The brightness of the small airy room found its center in her hair. She hadn’t yet gotten it done up in matronly wise, it was damp from washing and flowed like a maiden’s acro
ss her white gown. When Gratillonius entered she laid the book down and smiled as had the little girl who skipped forth to meet him, he riding from Ys.
He bent low till hazel eyes blurred in his vision and the sweetness of her filled his nostrils. Lips brushed across lips. Standing back, he asked, “How are you?”
“Most wonderfully well,” she answered.
He studied pallor in cheeks, dark smudges beneath lids. “You would say that.”
“She speaks truth, lord,” ventured the maid. “This wee slip of a thing, she’s tougher than most peasant women.”
“Nevertheless you ought to be in bed,” Gratillonius fretted.
“I’ll go back soon,” Verania promised. “But the weather’s lovely, and I felt quite able to walk this far and sit.”
Somehow she always got her way, and he had decided that that led to the best for him too. He stooped above the crib. The newborn slept, a wrinkled red miracle, incredibly tiny. “Maria,” he murmured. Verania had wanted that name, should it be a girl, to honor God’s Mother. He agreed, feeling inwardly that it honored every mother.
Verania’s gaze dwelt on him. “You’re the one to have a care about,” she said. “Have you slept at all? You’re emptied out, poor darling.”
He shrugged. “It’s a busy time.”
“What’s happened since yesterday evening?”
He lowered himself to a stool facing her. “I’ve just sent the Romans off, with Salomon for escort.” The last of my legion.
Gladness had yielded to concern in her. Now something else took possession. So quiet was it that he could not tell whether it was dread or sorrow. “You have cast the die,” she said slowly.
He grimaced. “It was cast for me. Again and again and again, always coming up the same. When Constantinus landed in Gallia, that was the final throw.”
“You play on.”
“It’s become a different game.”
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