Gallicenae (38 page)

Apuleius sighed. “I don’t doubt you. But they see it otherwise in Turonum, Treverorum, Lugdunum, Mediolanum—wherever it comes to mind that the man sent to be Rome’s prefect in Ys has become its independent sovereign. For that you are, no matter if you continue piously calling yourself a centurion on special duty.”

“How have I subverted any interest of Rome? By the Bull, I’ve strengthened us!”

“And strengthened Ys. The city that once lay veiled is today chiefest in Armorica, its brilliance and prosperity outshining any of the Western Empire. Nonetheless it remains as alien, as un-Christian, as the seat of the Sassanian King.”

“Rome’s made peace with the Persians.”

“How long can that last? How long will Ys choose to be our ally? You will not reign forever, Gratillonius. You will not reach old age, unless you can end that barbarous law of succession. Ys would be a most dangerous enemy. Already the grievances are building up.”

Gratillonius shook his head. “You’re wrong. I know.”

“You know what they think in Ys. I know what they think who govern Rome. When those men clamp down on the trade you have caused to flourish, how then will Ys feel?”

“Ha? But that’s ridiculous! Why in the name of moonstruck Cernunnos should they do any such thing? We gave Armorica peace; we’re drawing it out of poverty.”

“By means that are… unsettling. The merchants and shippers of Ys, being free agents, undermine the authority of Roman officials, guilds, laws. Men disappear from the stations of life to which they were born. They reappear in traffic that goes unregulated, untaxed, yet scarcely troubles itself to be clandestine. This year Ysans began acquiring substantial amounts of Hivernian gold. It flows about, uncoined, driving the Emperor’s money into total worthlessness, thereby making people mutter that perhaps they have no need of an Emperor at all. No, I tell you the authorities cannot indefinitely permit the life of the region to go outside their control. They dare not.”

Gratillonius decided to make no mention of his own irregularities. Some Roman officials must have some peripheral awareness of them; but to investigate would take those persons out of comfortable routine, into forests, heaths, slums, barbarian camps. Why force them to that? It could only make difficulties for all concerned—most of all for Rome, because the damned stupid government was not itself doing what was plainly necessary for survival.

“They certainly hold religion against us,” he growled. “But we have a church and pastor. We persecute nobody.”

“I hear that Honorius is devout,” Apuleius said. “When he grows up, he may transform weakness into zeal.”

“Maximus once threatened to invade Ys.”

“He fell. Stilicho is more formidable.”

Apuleius took his friend by the arm. “I don’t mean to perturb you,” he went on. “I only give you an early warning. You have time to prepare and take preventive steps. I’ve promised you to serve as your advocate with influential men. I believe we can forestall an order for your recall, because that would risk Armorica falling into chaos, a crisis which Stilicho surely regards as unnecessary at this juncture. But you must do your part. You must be more circumspect. You must forbid smuggling, and curb the most blatant of it. You—” Apuleius stopped.

“What?” asked Gratillonius.

“It would help mightily if you accepted the Faith and worked for the conversion of Ys.”

“I’m sorry. That’s impossible.”

“I know. How often I’ve prayed to God that He lift the scales from your eyes. It’s heretical of me, but I suspect that the knowledge you were burning in hell would diminish my joy in Heaven, should I be found worthy of going there.”

Gratillonius reined in a reply. As he had told Corentinus in their generally amicable arguments, he didn’t think an eternity of torment was the proper punishment for an incorrect opinion, and saw no righteousness in a God Who did. Corentinus retorted that mere mortals had no business passing judgment on the Almighty; what did they understand?

Apuleius brightened. “Enough,” he said. “You have the gist of what I wanted to tell you. Think it over, sleep on it, and tomorrow we’ll talk further. Let’s simply be ourselves until then. Look, there’s the villa ahead.”

They walked on. Security from attack and revival of trade had drawn workers out of inland refuges. Maximus’s veterans had additionally eased the labor shortage. Agriculture was again thriving around Aquilo, not in the form of latifundia but as sharecropping and even some freeholds. No longer neglected, the land surrounding the Apuleian manor house, which stood near the northwest corner of the cleared section with the forest at its back—this land showed neat fields, sleek livestock, buildings refurbished and permanently in use. At the house itself, whitewashed walls, glazed windows, red tile roof called back to Gratillonius his father’s. But here the owner was no curial between the millstones, he was a senator, the closest thing to a free man that Roman law recognized.

The children saw who approached and burst from within, to dash down the garden path and be hugged. Only six, Salomon outpaced his sister regardless. Big for his age, he was coming to resemble his father, though Apuleius must have been a quieter boy. The parents had explained to Gratillonius that they named him after a king of the ancient Jews in hopes that this would cause God to let him live. That had happened, but thereafter Rovinda continued to suffer stillbirths and infant deaths.

Verania followed. At ten she was well made if rather small. She had her father’s hazel eyes, her mother’s light-brown hair, and a countenance blending the comelinesses in both. Near to Gratillonius, she abruptly blushed and became very polite, her greeting barely audible through the wind.

“Well, well!” he said. “How good to see you two again. I’ll spare you any remarks about how you’ve grown since last. We’re doing nicely in Ys. I’ve much to tell you about that. For a start, here’re a couple of little things from there for you.”

He squatted on the gravel and opened the package. Its contents were modest, because Apuleius frowned on ostentation. However, they drew a shout from Salomon, a soft cry from Verania. He got a Roman sword and sheath, scaled to his size. “A copy of my old military piece. Someday, I think, you’ll lead men too.” She received a portable harp, exquisitely carved. “From Hivernia. I know you’re musical. Among the Scoti, some of their poets and bards are women.”

Worship looked back at him, until Salomon sprang up. “I know what we’ve got for you!” he crowed.

“Hush,” said Verania. “Wait till father’s ready.”

Apuleius laughed. “Why wait? Here we are. Before we step indoors and have a cup of something, let’s go see.” He linked his arm with Gratillonius’s. “You,ve been so generous to us over the years, so helpful, that we’d like to make some slight return.”

Salomon capered and hallooed. Verania walked on the other side of the prefect, not quite touching him, her glance bent downward.

The stable was dim, warm, smelling sweetly of hay and pungently of manure. Apuleius halted at one stall. From within, a stallion colt looked alertly out. Gratillonius would learn that he had overestimated the age, about six months, because it was so large—a splendid creature, sorrel with a white star, of the tall kind that bore cataphracts to battle.

“This is yours to take back with you,” Apuleius said.

“By Hercules, but you’re generous!” Gratillonius marveled.

“Well, as a matter of fact, my interest in breeding this sort began when you told me how your father’s been trying the same in Britannia. I think we’re having some success. Favonius is our best thus far. I suspect he’ll prove the best possible. You’re a horseman. We want you to have him.”

“Thank you so much.” Gratillonius reached over the bars, stroked mane and head, cupped his hand around the muzzle. How soft it was. “I’ll raise him right, and—and when I ride him here in future, help yourself to his stud services. Favonius, did you say?”

“Our name for him. You can change it if you like. It’s a rather literary word, meaning the west wind that brings the springtime.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll keep it.”

Apuleius smiled in the duskiness. “May he bear you to a springtime of your own.”

1

Tiberius Metellus Carsa was of Cadurcic descent, but his family had long dwelt in Burdigala and mingled its blood with others that pulsed in the city. Its men took to the sea, and he himself inherited the rank of captain after he was trained and a position had opened up. For some years he carried freight between the ports of Aquitania and as far as northern Hispania. At last he encountered pirates. Many
such had taken advantage of the strife between Theodosius and Arbogast, and not all were immediately suppressed after the Empire was pacified.

With Carsa in this battle was his oldest son Aulus, born to the trade and, at age fourteen, making his first real sea voyage. The boy acquitted himself well. He was expert with the sling. Though he had not grown into his full strength, from the cabin top he wrought havoc, certainly braining one man and disabling several. Meanwhile his father led a spirited defense at the rail. The upshot was that the reavers took heavy losses and fled before their vessel should be boarded.

That incident decided the owners to put Carsa on the Armorican run.

Those waters were tricky, but the human hazard had much diminished in the decade or so since Ys emerged from isolation. True, lately the barbarians had again been grieving Britannia. However, Ys kept them at arm’s length; and now that he had disposed of his rival, the praetorian prefect of the East, Stilicho was dispatching an expeditionary force against them.

Therefore, when shipping season began next year, Carsa sailed the seven-hundred-ton
Livia
down the Garumna and north-northwest over the gulf. His cargo was mostly wine and olive oil, his destination Ys. With him went Aulus.

It was a rough passage, winds often foul, taking a full ten days because the captain was cautious. “I’d rather arrive late in Ys than early in hell,” he said. “Although I’ve heard churchmen declare there is a great deal of hell already in that town.”

Young Aulus scarcely heard. He was staring ahead. Wonder stood before him.

The day was chill and gusty, casting saltiness off the whitecaps onto his lips. Waves brawled green, here and there darkened by kelp, bursting white over rocks. Afar lay an island, its flatness broken by a single turreted building. Fowl rode the water and wheeled overhead, hundredfold, crying through wind and surf, gulls, terns, guillemots, puffins, cormorants. Seals frolicked about or basked on skerries.
Livia
rocked forward under shortened sail, the master peering now at the reefs and now at the periplus fluttering in his grasp, men at the sides ready to fend off if need be. This cape had a grim reputation. It did not seem to trouble the vessels, mostly fishermen, that were in sight; but Roman mariners supposed Ys had a pact with the demons its people worshipped.

The city lay ahead. Its wall bowed out into the sea whose queen it was, filling the space between two looming promontories, the hue of dark roses, up and up to a frieze of fabulous creatures and thereafter battlements and turrets. Farther back, higher still, spires pierced heaven, glass agleam, until the roofs flared into fantastical shapes. As tidal flow commenced the gate was slowly closing. The harbor beyond, docks, warehouses, ships, boats, life, seemed to Aulus a paradise about to be denied him.

Out of the basin hastened four longboats. Shouts went back and forth. Lines snaked downward, were caught and made fast. The Romans struck sail. The Ysans bent to their oars and towed the ship in. Aulus gasped as he passed the sheer, copper-green doors.

In a haze of delight, he watched the tugmen warp
Livia
into a slip and collect their pay; a robed official come up the gangplank, accompanied by two guards in armor unlike any elsewhere, and confer with his father; the crew snug things down for the stay in port and, impatiently, shoulder their bags; the captain at last, at last grant shore leave!

Among the longshoremen, hawkers, whores, strolling entertainers, curious spectators who thronged the dock, were runners from various inns, each trying to outsing the others in praise of his place. They all knew some Latin. Tiberius grinned. “Let’s hope our poor devils don’t get fleeced too badly,” he said to his son. “We’ll be here for several days. If we’re to ply this route regularly, we need to familiarize ourselves with the port.”

“Where’ll we stay, you and I?” Aulus asked breathlessly.

“A respectable hostel. I have directions. Get our baggage and we’ll go.”

On their way, the Carsae found much—everything—to stare at. Nothing, not even those things the Romans had built, was quite like home; always the proportions and the artwork were subtly altered into something elongated and sleek, swirling and surging. The city throbbed and clamored with activity. Most Ysans appeared prosperous. It showed more in bright garments and jewelry than on bodies, except that folk were bathed and well groomed. They tended to be lean, energetic, but basically dignified. Many resembled the aborigines and Celts who had been among their ancestors, but often the Phoenician heritage revealed itself in hawk face or dark complexion. Men usually had close-trimmed beards and hair drawn into a queue; some wore tunics, some jacket and trousers, a few robes. Women’s tresses were set according to fancy, from high-piled coiffure to free flow beneath a headband. They generally wore long-sleeved, broad-belted gowns that gave ample freedom of movement, and they walked as boldly as men. The Carsae had heard their rights and liberties were essentially equal. Servants, too, were free agents working for pay, slavery being banned in Ys—an almost exact reversal of Roman practice.

Like the city it stood in, the hostel was clean and well furnished. In the room that father and son got, a fresco depicted a ship at sea and, sky-tall and beautiful, a woman in a blue cloak whose hand upheld a star above the mast.

“Pagans,” Tiberius muttered. “Damned souls. Licentious too, I hear. But they have a Christian church somewhere.”

“We, we must deal with them… mustn’t we?” asked Aulus. “They can’t be
wicked.
Not if—” He waved an awkward hand at the view in the window. “Not if they made this.”