Gallicenae (22 page)

Lanarvilis nodded. “The Gallicenae have heard that much, of course,” she said softly. “He sent a written account among us—written by Bodilis, with whom he stays closeted in the palace, his Roman soldiers standing by. They’ve brought the Gaul there too. That is all I know thus far. His words to us were few and hard, no matter that Bodilis tried to milden them.”

“I’ll give you the rest.” Soren’s feet thudded on the carpet, a drumbeat above the sea-noise. “I shouted my outrage. Ys lives by Her Gods, Who require Their ancient sacrifices. He replied that—he would fight future challengers, and those who did not yield must take their hazard of death; but he would not believe the honor of any God was served by—he called it murder!” Soren struggled for breath. “‘Stand aside,’ he said, and began to help the scoundrel to the house.

“I called on the marines to kill the challenger, since this traitor King would not. ‘Be still,’ Gratillonius said—oh, how quietly. ‘It is not meet that anybody die here.’ His Romans trod closer, hands on hilts. Yet I—Elissa, Lanarvilis—I saw it was not they that stayed the marines. Our guards too were shaken, but ’twas the King they would obey, this king who scorns the Gods That raised him up.”

Soren ground fist into palm. “I swallowed vomit, though it burned my throat,” he related. “After the injured man was at rest and a Roman—not our standby physician for a wounded victor, but a soldier with rough surgical skill—was tending him… Gratillonius returned and I sought to reason with him. Whatever his beliefs, I said, surely he could see that this—blasphemy, violation of the Pact—this would make him hated and undermine all he has done for his Rome. He answered that he thought not.”

“I fear he was right,” Lanarvilis said.

“Aye,” Soren groaned. “Have you heard? Late in the day, when that Rufinus was somewhat recovered, Gratillonius brought him to the city. Beforehand, he had sent for heralds and told them to proclaim his intent. Folk were packed along Lir Way. He entered High Gate at the head of his marching men and, and a squadron of our marines, he riding, with Rufinus tethered at his saddlebow—Do you understand? He gave himself a Roman triumph; and the people cheered!”

“I heard,” Lanarvilis said. “I was not surprised.”

“He has won them over. In spite of his alien God, in spite of his protecting that Christian priest, in spite of everything, he’s their dear King Grallon, for whom they’ll take arms against anybody. How long before the Gods take arms against them?”

“Have you thought, Soren,” she asked low, “that we may in truth be at the end of the Age that Brennilis began? That mayhap Ys is once more offered the cup of youth, and if she will not taste of it must soon grow old and die?”

He halted. He stared. “You too?” he breathed at last.

She shook her head. “Nay, my darling. Never would I betray you. But my Sisters and I—other than Bodilis, though she laid certain words of wisdom in that letter—we had Maldunilis brought back from Sena and spoke together. I knew you would seek me out.”

His bulk trembled. “What did you decide?”

“It may be that Gratillonius will satisfy Taranis with his hecatomb.”

“I think not; for no sacrificial blood will flow in his heart.”

Lanarvilis shivered likewise. “Wait and see. Taranis did not cast a thunderbolt this day. But if the Gods are indeed wrathful—Their revenge is often slow, but always cruel.”

Soren traced a sign, braced himself, and said, “I’m concerned that all Ys not suffer because of a single man’s wickedness. Might you Gallicenae curse him, as you did Colconor?”

Lanarvilis made a fending motion. “Nay! How could we? He may be mistaken, but evil he is not. A curse without passion behind it can no more fly to its target than an arrow from a stringless bow.”

“And anyhow, several of you would refuse.”

“The whole Nine would, Soren.”

“So be it,” the man said. “Well, Ys has been saddled in the past with Kings about whom something must be done. I mean not those who were… simply bestial, like Colconor, for to conspire against the Chosen of Taranis is an act of desperation—but some who posed a threat to the whole city. We’ll send our agents out through Armorica, bearing gold and promises. Gratillonius will have challenger after challenger, month after month, till one of them cuts him down.”

Calm had descended on Lanarvilis. “We guessed that idea would be broached, we Gallicenae,” she said, “and we forbid it.”

“What?”

“Some of us love him. But put that aside. We too can lay our hearts on the altar when it must be done. Think, though. You and I are the politic persons, the worldliest among those who serve the Gods. Is it not really Ys we serve, Mother Ys?

“Think what Gratillonius has done and is doing. He has strengthened us, within and without our wall. He has quickened our stagnant trade. He has reconciled the high and the low. He has kept us free. Who else has the least hope of holding Emperor Maximus at arm’s length? Who else have the Scoti and the Saxons learned to fear? Why, his very Mithras is a counterbalance to that Christ Who would take from us our Gods.

“Dare you imagine that some filthy barbarian or runaway slave can replace him? I say to you, Soren Cartagi, and if you are honest you will concede it—ill shall Ys fare if she loses King Grallon.”

Silence followed, apart from the subterranean thunder of Ocean.

Finally Soren dragged forth: “I am… aware of this. I awaited that response of yours. I have even begun talks with my colleagues. Hannon is bewildered with horror, but I should be able to talk him over, along with the rest. We will not rebel, not conspire, but bide our time. Let the Gods work as They will.”

He stood quiet for a space before adding. “Yet we, Their worshippers, cannot sit passive. They make us what we are, our unique selves,
Ys.
How shall we make our amends for this harm that has been done Them?”

“The Nine have thought upon that,” Lanarvilis replied gravely. “We, his wives, know what stubbornness is in Gratillonius. But patience, endurance, that is woman’s weapon.

“Therefore we will lay the foundations of the future, that ineluctable morrow when he has fallen and we are done with mourning him. We will take triple care that our daughters grow up in the awe of the Gods. First and foremost will we instill devoutness in Dahut, child of Dahilis, whose nurturing we share. Forsquilis senses fate within that girl. Its form is unknown, but its power waxes year after year. We Nine will set upon her brow the sigil of the Three.”

Again Soren signed himself.

“It is well,” he said, took up the wine cups that stood on the table, handed Lanarvilis one, and took a long draught from its mate.

Thereafter, soothed a little, he sat down opposite her, ventured a smile, and said, “You’ve lightened a huge burden for me. Thank you.”

She smiled back. “Nay, you let it off yourself.”

“Well, mayhap, but first you loosened the bonds holding it fast. Ever have you been kind to me.”

“How could I be aught else… to you?” she whispered.

They withdrew from the edge of that. “Well,” he suggested, “can we spend a while talking of small things? How have you fared since last I saw you? What will you share with me?”

“All I am permitted to,” she said.

1

Winter’s early night had fallen when three Romans entered an alehouse in the Fishtail district. The first was well known there: Adminius, deputy commander of the legionaries. The second had come occasionally, young Budic; he, who carried a lantern, now blew it out and put it down on a remnant of mosaic. The third was a tall, craggy-boned, middle-aged man, clad in ordinary tunic and breeches, but with his hair shaven off the front half of his scalp.

This taproom had been the atrium of a fine house—long ago, before sea level began to rise, driving the wealthy to higher ground and eventually forcing construction of the great wall. Bits of relief sculpture and hints of frescoes peered out of soot and grease. Tables and benches on what was mostly a clay floor were rough wood, though themselves time-worn, haggled by generations of idle knives. Tallow candles guttered and dripped on the boards, enough light to see by after a fashion. Shadows curtained every corner, flickered across peeled plaster and thin-scraped membrane stretched over windows, parodied each movement. The stench of burning fat mingled with odors of cooking from the kitchen, of sour wine and worse beer.

Withal, it was a rather cheery place. About a dozen fishers, merchant sailors, wherry oarsmen occupied two of the tables. They drank heartily, jested roughly, laughed loudly. A woman sat with one group, teasing them while she sipped what they bought her. As the newcomers entered, another man came in from the hallway beyond. He grinned in lazy wise and secured his belt. The rest gave him a ribald cheer. “Did your ram sink that hull for good this eventide?” shouted someone.

“Nay,” he replied, “you know Keban better than that. She’ll soon bob back to surface. Me, I’m thirsty. Mead, potboy, none of your horse piss but good, honest mead!” He was young, strong, ruddy of close-trimmed beard and queue-braided hair.

Adminius and Budic recognized him. “That’s Herun, of the navy,” said the younger soldier in his diffident way, and the deputy whooped, “’Oy, there, ’Erun, come drink it with us!”

Their companion shook his head. “Poor, forlorn soul,” he murmured in Latin. “Has he no wife, that he couples with a whore?”

Budic flushed. “W-w-we warned you, sir, what kind of place this is. Should we g-go away?”

“No.” A smile. “It’s not as if I didn’t recognize the surroundings.”

Herun trotted over. “We got a guest ’ere,” Adminius said. “Corentinus.”

The mariner halted, squinted through the murk, responded slowly: “Aye, now I know him. Every sennight he preaches at the Forum, from the steps of the old Mars temple. What would a Christian priest among us?”

Corentinus smiled again. “Naught to frighten anybody,” he said in Ysan that had become fluent though heavily accented. “I hope to grow better acquainted with folk. These men kindly offered to show me where sailors hang out. After all, I’m a sailor myself.”

“Indeed?”

“Or was. ’Tis another kind of sea I ply nowadays. If I pledge not to evangelize, will you let me drink with you?”

A staring, listening stillness had fallen. “’E’s a right sort,” Adminius declared. “’Oly man, but not sanctimonious, if you take my meaning. Nobody minds Budic or me or most of us soldiers being Christian, so why mind Corentinus?”

Herun recovered himself. “Welcome,” he said, a bit grudgingly. “Shall we sit?” He joined the three at a separate table. “Only the mead here is fit for aught but swine and Saxons,” he warned, becoming more genial, “but ’tis pretty fair stuff at the price.”

The potboy brought a round. Corentinus watered his. “How like you our city?” Herun asked him.

“Oh, dazzling, a whirlpool of wonders,” the chorepiscopus replied. “I’ve never seen aught to rival it, and I’ve been widely about in my time.”

Adminius laughed. He waved a hand around. “This ’ere’s ’ardly any palace,” he said.

“Nay,” Corentinus agreed. “But see you, I’ve had my fill of elegance. Thanks to the King, I’ve seen the inside of most wealthy homes in Ys and its hinterland. Beautiful, as I said; but my flock numbers few, and they poor and lowly.”

“Get ye no Christians in summer?” growled a man at an adjacent table. “I’ve met ’em aplenty whilst faring to Roman harbors.”

“Aye, aye. They attend services. But my true ministry is to Ys.” Corentinus chuckled and shrugged. “Not that my sermons on the steps—my rantings, some call them—draw large audiences. So I thought I would go forth among ordinary folk and get to know them well enough that, God willing, I can find what words will appeal to them.”

Herun frowned. “You’ll find us a tough lot,” he said. “For see you, ’tis by the favor and power of her Gods that Ys lives. Else would the sea overwhelm us.”

“God, the true God, He has power to save Ys,” blurted Budic.

Corentinus raised a hand. “Belay that, lad. You mean well, but I did promise no preaching this night. Can we not just spin yarns? Or continue whatever else your pleasure is.”

“What is yours?” purred a female voice.

They glanced up. The harlot Keban had tidied herself after Herun and come back downstairs. She was pleasant to look upon, in her close-fitting gown over a buxom figure and her deliberately tousled hair. She drooped her eyelids and smiled. “Care for a bit of fun, you?” she went on in Corentinus’s direction.

He shook his head. “Not for me, thank you.”

She looked about. “Anybody?… Not yet, anyhow?… Well, who’ll buy a girl a drink?”

“Allow me,” said Corentinus, and gestured her to sit beside him on the bench.

“Huh?” muttered from another table. “Keban, don’t you know that’s the new Christian priest?”

“Mayhap I can seduce him,” she said impudently, and settled down.

Corentinus laughed. “Or I you? We’ll see. What’ll you have?”

“Wine.” She stuck out her tongue at Herun. “Despite what you say ’bout it.” To the pastor: “I’m surprised. I truly am. I thought somebody like you would hate me.”

Again he shook his head. “Nay,” he told her solemnly. “I must hate what you do, but never you, poor child. Tell me, do you never weary of being a thing? Do you ever think what becomes of old whores?”

She defied him; forlornness lay underneath: “What else have I got, unless to be a scullion in some household where the master and, and all of them’ll hump me anyway?”

Budic was appalled. “Why, Keban—” he began, and stopped.

“You’ve been sweet,” she said to him. “Few are.”

He withered under Corentinus’s sardonic look. The pastor, though, merely declared to the woman: “Tis never too late for God’s grace, while life remains. Did you choose to accept His mercy, I would for my part undertake to find you a decent situation. In due course, my church may found a home for those who were lost aforetime.”

The outer door creaked. Boots thudded under the weight of a bear-solid man, roughly clad, who snuffed the link he had been carrying by scrubbing it against the clay and tossed it down. As he approached through the gloom, first Herun, then the soldiers and most of the mariners recognized his rocky visage. “Maeloch!” cried one. “What brings ye hither?”