Gallicenae (8 page)

Gratillonius sat worrying till his friend returned, and asked as they went forth: “What’s happened? Maximus didn’t allow this kind of shillyshallying in Britannia.”

“Not entirely his fault,” Drusus replied. “You remember how he always oversaw as much as possible personally. Well, he’s the same now that he wears the purple. And it worked for a while. Name of
Christ, how we sliced through Gratianus’s ranks! But being Emperor is different, I guess. He keeps getting interrupted by new problems.”

“Why does he want a direct account of a border clash?” Gratillonius wondered.

“M-mm, don’t quote me. I could get in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Drusus. D’you imagine I’ve forgotten that day in the rain? All the puddles were red.”

Hand squeezed shoulder. “I remember too. Well, nobody’s told me anything officially, understand, but when a smell comes downwind I can usually tell whether it’s from a rose or a fart. After Gratianus died—and he was murdered, make no doubt of that, murdered when he’d been promised safety at a feast with an oath on the Gospels—” Drusus glanced about. They were anonymous in a throng of people intent on their own lives. “Maximus put the blame on his cavalry commander, but never punished the man…. Anyway. While negotiations were going on afterward, Maximus got the Juthungi to invade Raetia. He had connections to them. Pressure on Theodosius to make a settlement. Valentinianus is only a kid, under the thumb of his mother. But her Frankish general in his turn got the Huns and Alani to harry the Alemanni so close to the Rhenus that Maximus had to move troops to that frontier.

“Which is why I’m still posted yonder, and the Augustus is anxious about whatever the barbarians may be up to, and why. They’ve gotten a taste of playing us Romans off against each other.”

Gratillonius raised a dam against the words that rose in his throat. What was this fellow saying about their Duke, the man who rolled midnight back from the Wall?

Gratillonius told himself that a commander could not always control what his subordinates did, and statecraft unavoidably had its dirty side, and Drusus was a solid sort who might be misled but who should be heard out before any arguments began. “Well, however that is,” he said, “why aren’t things better organized here? It doesn’t sound a bit like Maximus. Can’t he get competent officers any longer?”

“It’s the Priscillianus mess,” Drusus answered. “Before then, we had a pretty smooth mill running. But since that rift spread this far—”

He paused before he sighed and added, “I don’t understand any miserable part of it. This town’s full of jabber about the First Cause, the Sons of God and the Sons of Darkness, Spiritual Man, mystical numbers, and I don’t know what else, except I was there when a man got knifed in a tavern ruckus that started over whether or not the age of prophecy is over. I think Priscillianus has to be wrong when he says men and women should stay apart, never get together. If that is what he says. I don’t know. But why all these fights about it? I wonder if Christ in Heaven isn’t weeping at what they’re doing in His name. Sometimes I almost envy infidels like you.”

They had wandered down toward the river. Through an open portal they saw the bridge across it, and vineyards and villas beyond. A fresh dampness blew off it. Leaves blazed with autumn. Gratillonius remembered Bodilis reading to him a poem Ausonius had written in praise of this stream; the author had sent her a copy.
Like a girl-child playing with her hair before a mirror, fisher lads sport with shadowy shapes underwater.
Suddenly laughter welled up in him and he pitched away the cares of the world. They’d climb back onto him soon enough. “Not our department,” he said. “How about we find us a place where we can have a drink and swap brags?”

3

Four days later he was in the presence of Maximus Augustus, but as a prisoner.

News had exploded through the city. The Emperor, who had promised clemency for the Priscillianists, was rehearing the entire case. Bishop Ithacius withdrew as prosecutor. It was said that he feared the wrath of such powerful colleagues as Martinus and Ambrosius.

Earlier, the bishop of Mediolanum had come back this far north, ostensibly to see the bones of Gratianus returned to Italy for burial, actually to attend the first trial. Maximus refused him a private audience but received him in consistory, where he in his turn declined the Emperor’s proffered kiss of peace and accused the latter of being a lawless usurper. Maximus responded in the course of proceedings with a denial that Valentinianus was his equal; if nothing else, the boy-Emperor and his mother were known to have strong Arian leanings.

Though Ambrosius had since gone home, the qualms of Ithacius were natural. In his place, Maximus appointed Patricius, an advocate for the treasury. Did the Augustus want the property of the heretics?

Gratillonius found a military tribune who was a reliable conduit of information, rather than rumors. What he learned about the goings-on within the Church perturbed him less than what he learned about Maximus. How long must he hang around this cursed city? Most of his time he spent sightseeing, or talking with chance-met men. They were a varied lot, many of them trading up and down the rivers or overland. There grew before him a vision, clearer than ever, of the Empire, how vast it was and how troubled.

The detachment came for him toward evening, when he had lately returned to the hostel after a day’s ride in the hinterland. A vintner had hailed him and invited him home for a cup and a gab; there the pretty daughter of the house smiled upon him. Now he sat in the common room prior to supper, more content than he had been, thinking back over the small experience. The door opened. Four soldiers in combat gear tramped through, and at their head a centurion.

“We seek Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, of the Second Legion Augusta,” that man announced.

“Here he is.” Gratillonius’s heart leaped up as fast as his body.

“In the name of the Augustus, come.”

“At once. I’ll just outfit myself—”

“No. Immediately.”

Gratillonius stared into faces gone hard. A prickling went over his scalp. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

The centurion clapped hand to sword. “Silence! Come!”

Household staff gaped, shrank aside, and saw their guest depart surrounded by armed men. Folk outside likewise fell silent as the group strode down the streets to the basilica.

Guarded gates led to a cloistered courtyard where dusk was rising: for the sun had gone below the outer walls. Light still glowed on the upper courses of brick and red sandstone that made up the great building within, and flared off glass in its windows. Numb, Gratillonius accompanied his escort into this citadel of his hopes, past several checkpoints and thus at last to the audience hall where the Emperor was.

The soldiers clanked to a halt and saluted. Gratillonius did too. That was his old commandant there on the throne, the same Hispanic hatchet features and lean body though purple be wrapped around and a golden wreath set above. He hardly noticed the splendor of the room or the several councillors who sat or stood beneath their master.

The officer waited for the Imperial nod before reporting that he brought the person required. “Ah, Gratillonius,” Maximus said low. “Step forward. Let us look at you.”

The King of Ys posed for what seemed a long while, until he heard: “Know that we have been told such evil of you that we have ordered your arrest. What have you to say for yourself?”

Despite foreknowing he was somehow in danger, Gratillonius felt as if clubbed. “Sir?” Breath sobbed into him. He braced his knees, gave Maximus eye for eye, and declared, “My lord, I have served you and Rome to the best of my ability. Who’s spoken ill of me?”

Maximus straightened and clipped, “Your own men, Centurion, your own men. Do you call them liars? Do you deny having trafficked with Satan?”

“What? Sir—my lord—I don’t understand. My men—”

“Silence.” Maximus nodded at a pinch-lipped person in a drab tunic. “Calvinus, read the report.”

That one took up a set of papers and began what soon became a singsong, like a chant to his God. It developed that he was high in the Imperial secret service. His agents were everywhere, in every walk of life, with instructions to keep alert for anything the least suspicious and follow it up until they had sufficient clues to warrant full investigation. As if across a sea, Gratillonius heard how his legionaries, innocently talking in barracks and around town, had spoken of him. There was
no need to interrogate any of them; all were ready to boast about their leader and about the wonders of Ys.

Gratillonius heard how he, in a pagan ceremony where the images of devils were brought forth, had wedded nine women who were avowed witches. He heard how he had accepted and openly borne the emblems of a sea demon and a demon of the air. He had sent forth a spirit in the form of a bird to spy upon his enemies. He had ordered magic to raise a storm. He had betrodden an island that was from time immemorial the site of the blackest sorcery—

Courtiers shivered and made signs against malevolence. Lips moved in whispered prayer. The squad that had taken Gratillonius kept martial stiffness, but sweat came forth; he saw it, he smelled it.

At the end, Maximus leaned forward. “You have heard the charges,” he said. “You must realize their gravity, and the necessity we are under of finding the truth. Sorcery is a capital offense. The powers of darkness have reached into the very Church; and you are a defiant unbeliever, who bears upon himself the mark of it.”

What mark? He had left the Key of the gate behind in Ys, as being too vital to risk anywhere else. He’d grown a beard there, but it was close-cropped like a Roman’s. He did wear his hair in Ysan male style, long, caught at the nape to fall down in a tail…. He clawed out of his bewilderment and thought Maximus must refer to the brand of Mithraic initiation on his brow, though it had faded close to invisibility and—and Mithraists were loyal Romans.

“You may speak,” the Emperor said.

Gratillonius squared his shoulders. “Sir, I’ve practiced no wizardry. Why, I wouldn’t know how. The Duke—the Augustus always knew what my religion is, and it doesn’t deal in magic. They believe differently in Ys, true. Well, given my job, how could I keep from showing respect to their Gods? I did—I did ask help from whatever powers they might have, but that was against barbarians who menaced Rome. As for that time on Sena, the island Sena, I wasn’t supposed to set foot on it, but my wife—a wife of mine was dying there—” His throat locked on him. His eyes blurred and stung.

“You may be honest.” Maximus’s tone was steady; and did it hold a slight note of regret? “We had cause for confidence in you, and therefore entrusted you with your mission. But if nothing else, you may have been seduced by the Evil One. We must find out. God be praised, now that the Priscillianus matter nears an end, we have had a chance to hear this news of you. And we have given it prompt consideration as much for your sake—Gratillonius, who did serve valiantly on the Wall—as for Rome’s. We will pray that you be purged of sin, led to the Light, saved from perdition.” Abruptly the old military voice rang forth. “If you remain a soldier, obey your orders!”

He issued instructions. The squad led Gratillonius away.

4

In the early morning he was brought from the cell where he had spent a sleepless night. On the way down the gloom of a corridor, he met a procession under heavy guard. At its front walked a gray-haired man, skeletal, eyes fixed luminous upon another world. Four men came after, and a middle-aged woman and a younger who held hands. All were in coarse and dirty garb. They moved stumblingly, because they had not only been half starved but severely tortured. They stank. Lanterns burned smoky in the dank air around them. Hoarsely, they tried to sing a hymn.

“The heresiarch and those followers of his who’ve been condemned,” said one of Gratillonius’s guards to him. “They’re off to the chopping block. Have a care, fellow, or you’ll be next.”

—Light was dim also in the interrogation chamber. Gratillonius could just identify scenes of the Christian hell painted on its plaster. How neatly the instruments and tools sat arranged. This could have been an artisan’s workshop. Nothing felt quite real, except the chill. Two men waited, the first skinny and wearing a robe, the second muscular and in a brief tunic, ready for action. They studied the prisoner impersonally. He heard through a buzzing in his head:

“—by command of the Augustus. Cooperate, and this may be the only session we’ll need. Otherwise we will be forced to take strict measures. Do you understand? We’re coping with none less than Satan—
”

Surprised at his meekness (but resistance would have been of no avail, when he was so alone), Gratillonius undressed. His nudity made him feel twice helpless. The torturer secured him in a frame so that he stood spread-eagled and took a lead ball off a shelf. It dangled at the end of a thong. Meanwhile the questioner continued talking, in an amicable voice. “—your duty to help lay bare the work of Satan. We do not wish to harm you. Simply as a warning—”

Snapped by an expert hand, the ball smote Gratillonius’s elbow. Agony went jagged up that arm. He strangled a scream. He
would
not scream.

“—now tell me, in your own words—”

Whenever he resisted or equivocated, not that he meant to play games but often he wasn’t sure how to respond, the blow landed, on joints, belly, the small of the back, until he was a single slab of pain; and worst was that the next attack might come from between his sprangled thighs. Weirdest was that, from time to time, the proceedings would stop, they would bring him water, the torturer would sponge the sweat off him while the questioner chatted about everyday things.

Mithras, Who hates a liar, give me to cling to the truth! “—I did n-n-no such deed, ever. Others may have, I don’t know about that, I’m just a soldier, but it was for Rome, everything I did was for Rome.”

“He might want a taste of the hook,” said the torturer thoughtfully.

The questioner considered. “Once.”

When the barbs went into his thigh and out again, Gratillonius knew what it was like to be raped.