The Dog and the Wolf (17 page)

Osprey
put to sea. Wind was from the east. Sweeps came inboard, sail rattled aloft, and the smack ran over gray-green chop toward her old fishing grounds. First she must bear southerly, to round the peninsula. Maeloch kept her closer to shore than his men quite liked. These waters were less dangerous than those around Ys, but still had their share of rocks and shoals. Toward evening, he pointed to where hearthsmoke rose from the land and said, “We’ll put in yonder for the night.”

A couple of mariners groaned. “Why, that’s daft, skipper,” Usun protested. “We’ll have moon enough to fare after dark. And we ken nay the approach.”

“Just the same, we go in, me lads, as we will each darkfall that we can. ’Tis wise we make acquaintance with our fellows along this coast. They can tell us a mickle
about it; and should we ever find ourselves in distress, why, we’ll have their goodwill.”

Usun shook his head. “In the time these calls ’ull take, we could make a second voyage. We’ve become poor men.”

“With fewer mouths to feed than erstwhile,” said Maeloch bleakly.

“Ye could at least ha’ taken on a pilot who knows the way.”

“That would be one more mouth to … talk. Helm over!”

Narrowed glances dwelt on the captain, but the crew obeyed. More than once had he issued strange orders; and thus far they had stayed alive.

It was slow work, crawling forward on oars, constantly heaving the lead. The sun had gone down behind western heights when
Osprey
arrived. The village was a mass of shadows, the men who waited to meet the strangers almost as murky. Maeloch sprang from the bows and advanced with hands open. In Osismiic he declared his name and port of departure. His dialect differed from what prevailed here, but was understandable. Suspicion dissolved. Everyone was delighted to meet newcomers, and they were invited to lodge overnight. As he had hoped, Maeloch ended in the headman’s hut.

“Ye’re kind to a wayfarer,” he said as the wife set forth a belated meal of stockfish, leeks, and roots. “Let me offer somewhat.” He had brought a jug of wine. Soon he and his host were on the best of terms.

Palaver went on long after dark. Maeloch led it toward pirates. That was easy. Nightmare memories were already astir. Even these dwellings had what drew barbarians—women to ravish, youngsters to take for slave markets, men to kill and roofs to burn for the fun of it.

“They’ll nay come back at once, the Saxons and Scoti,” Maeloch said. “First they must hear o’ what’s happened, then make small, probing raids till they’re sure the back of Armorica’s sea defense be broken. And the north shores be nearer them. ’Tis a long beat around the headlands where Ys was. Those who sail too nigh will likely sail no more.” His rumbling voice lost steadiness for a moment.
There had been that which sang on a reef. Boldly again: “But in time they’ll reach ye, sure as death. Will ye be ready?”

Bitterness replied: “What can we be ready with? Fish spears and firewood axes—or our feet to carry us inland when we see the lean hulls.”

“It could be more, my friend. Hark’ee. The Romans have nay the manpower to ward ye, yet will nay let ye arm yourselves and form a trained force, the kind that made the barbarians give Ys and her ships a wide berth. However, the Romans need nay know all that goes on in a quiet way.”

The headman sat straight. “What d’ye aim at?”

“Ah, nay too fast. ‘Quiet’ be the word I used. But I be a man o’ Grallon’s, he who was King of Ys, and he did ask me to sound out those like yourself as I fared—”

3

The Sunday was clear, surely a good omen. Already at dawn, people began to gather in front of the cathedral. When Gratillonius arrived shortly after sunrise, the square was crowded. Mostly folk stood mute; those who talked did so in murmurs. The consecration of a bishop was an event of the highest solemnity.

The great building shadowed them. Brick, tile, and glass of its clerestory caught the early light, a brightness as cool as the air. Memory tugged Gratillonius’s lips ruefully upward. When had he last attended a Christian service in Turonum, or anywhere else for that matter? Thirteen years ago? So little had he known then that he supposed the church was the only one in the city. Actually, the cathedral had been under repair after a fire. Today Corentinus would have a setting worthy of him.

Apuleius waited at the head of the assembly, together with a few other men of secular importance from his territory. Gratillonius went to join them. Nobody said more to him than a greeting. He felt the constraint and tried to shrug it off his mind.

Beyond the columns of the porch, the doors opened.
Darkness obscured the men who cried, “Come, all Christians! Come to worship!” They went down the three stairs and across the pavement, calling their summons.

The people moved forward, upward, inward. Frescos between the windows in aisles and clerestory were more plain to see than the picture of Christ the Lawgiver in the apse; but the light from the east that dazzled eyes was as a glory under His feet. At that end the floor was three steps higher, bearing altar, offertory table, and cupboard for holy things needful. Ranked in the apse were the clergy, wearing robes of white. Over these, priests had the dalmatic, bishops the chasuble, splashes of color against dusk. The bishops were three, Martinus in a carven chair flanked in lesser seats by the two colleagues whom the occasion required. Corentinus folded his long frame close to them. Priests used stools. The choir, double-ranked below them, seemed almost phantom-like. Candleflames glimmered.

The lay notables took stance behind a few benches set out for the aged and infirm. Several hundred commoners pressed in at their backs. The energumens had been led away. From the bema a deacon called for silence. The doorkeepers passed the command on to the overflow attendance in porch and square. Mumbling died out. For a minute the hush was enormous.

The deacon’s voice trod forth: “Let us kneel.”

Gratillonius felt a brief surprise. He was used to seeing those who prayed stand erect, arms raised in supplication. Was this a new practice, or had he forgotten, or was he still more ignorant of the Mass than he had supposed? Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the patterned stone floor.

A priest mounted the ambo on the north side and prayed, “—to God, Saviour of the faithful, preserver of the believers, author of immortality—” The congregation’s “Amen” sounded deep, and all stood up.

From the cupboard a subdeacon brought a volume of Jewish scripture to the first level of the ambo, read a passage, “—Better a poor man who walks in his integrity, than he who is false in his ways and rich. …” and returned it. The people knelt while the priest read a second collect, and rose again. The first deacon called for silence. Another deacon brought a lavishly bound volume of the
Apostles to the second level of the ambo, proclaimed the title, and read. Gratillonius thought Martinus must have chosen the shipwreck of Paulus in compliment to old sailor Corentinus. The deacon took the book back.

“Oh, all you works of the Lord, bless you the Lord,” sang the choir. The response, “Praise Him and magnify Him forever,” had not that soaring beauty, but force throbbed in it. Gratillonius kept silence. From the corner of an eye he saw how fervently Apuleius entered into the antiphony as it went on.

Meanwhile a subdeacon had lighted the incense in the censer. A rich odor wafted from it. The second deacon took the Gospel from the altar where it lay, the subdeacon censed it, and the deacon carried it to the third and highest level of the ambo. Resting it on the lectern, he announced the title, certain verses from holy Marcus. Seated clergy rose. “Glory to God Almighty,’ said the congregation.

The words welled up: “—And Lord Jesus told them: Pay Caesar what is Caesar’s and God what is God’s. … ”

The book was returned to the altar and the choir sang a brief anthem from the Psalms. Again the first deacon called for silence and the priest on the ambo made announcements. Gratillonius’s mind wandered elsewhere. Another collect followed.

Gratillonius’s attention awakened when Bishop Martinus trod to the top of the bema steps and gave his sermon. Drawing its text from the Gospel passage, it was characteristically short and pointed. Gratillonius half felt the preacher’s eyes were on him. “—doing what Caesar requires, or just what is necessary to sustain life and common decency, is not enough. It can even become the subtlest of temptations. We do well to be honorable, unless we make so much of that that it turns into pride and causes us to neglect the far higher duty we owe to God—”

If he meant a reproach, he set it aside afterward, when his fellow bishops led Corentinus to him. Having signed themselves, they formally named the candidate and intoned together, “Reverend Father, the churches at Aquilo and Confluentes beg you to raise up this present chorepiscopus
to the task of full bishop.” Corentinus genuflected. Gratillonius’s heartbeat quickened.

Martinus turned to the visiting leaders. “Speakers for those whose shepherd he shall be,” he asked, “do you find this man worthy?”

Faith made no difference. A bishop must be acceptable to his entire community. When Gratillonius joined in replying, “He is worthy,” he found himself stammering. Why? He had been instructed in everything that was to happen.

Martinus questioned Corentinus ritually and at length about his orthodoxy and intentions. Though equally stylized, the answers rang with sincerity. In the end, Martinus said, “May the Lord return these and other goods to you, and keep you safe, and strengthen you in all good.”

A subdeacon brought a chasuble for Corentinus to don. Its rich blue, with glistening gold embroidery, looked out of place on his gauntness, but it was the work of loving hands at home. He knelt. Martinus prayed that he might prove a faithful and prudent servant over his family. The three bishops laid their hands on his head. “Receive the Holy Spirit,” Martinus bade, “for the office and work of a bishop, now committed to you by the laying on of our hands; in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Corentinus rose, hallowed.

The first deacon cried dismissal. It was time for catechumens, penitents, and infidels to leave. Gratillonius felt on his back the looks of Martinus, Corentinus, and Apuleius, about to enter the mystery that he denied. Its secrets were ill-kept, unlike those of Mithras, and he knew more or less what would take place; but for no sound reason, his exclusion hurt.

—However, those who stayed saw practices that had changed somewhat over the years. Offerings were now taken only from the baptized, while the choir sang. Thereupon the second deacon went to the top of the ambo and led a prayer for God’s mercy on sinners and the ignorant. He then took a diptych, conjoined tablets of cedarwood with heavy silver covers, and saying, “May you show mercy, Lord, on Your servant—” read out every name inscribed, beginning with that of Emperor Honorius, continuing
through bishops present and past, the martyr Symphorianus whose holy relics rested here, on to various living and departed members of the congregation whom there was special reason to name. At the altar Martinus prayed for God to bless them, free the souls of the dead from suffering, and let “this oblation converted to Christ’s flesh and blood be effective.” He ended with the words “through Our Lord Jesus Christ,” and the people answered, “Amen.”

The Gospel was taken to the cupboard and a linen cloth spread over the altar. On it were set the chalice and a ewer of water, while fresh incense went into the censer. A brief prayer proclaimed belief in the Trinity, confessed frailty, begged for forgiveness, and ended with the mutual “Amen.

A deacon took the chalice to the offertory table and half filled it with wine; another chose some of the bread donated and set it directly on the altar cloth. Martinus poured water into the wine. A deacon covered the Elements with a napkin. Words went to and fro: Let us greet one another. Peace be with you. And with your spirit.

Martinus kissed Corentinus, they both in turn kissed their brother bishops, these passed it on to the rest of the clergy and to the laity, who exchanged kisses. Meanwhile Martinus prayed aloud for mercy, remission of sins, and “that whosoever are joined in the kiss be more bound to each other and hold with affection in the breast that which is offered with the mouth.”

Congregation: “Amen.”

Martinus: “Let us lift up our hearts.”

Congregation: “We have, to the Lord.”

Martinus: “Let us return thanks to the Lord our God.”

Congregation: “It is meet and just.”

Martinus: “It is meet and just to give thanks to the Lord, Holy Father, Almighty Eternal God, Whose Son was born of a virgin, through the Holy Spirit; and being made man shrank not from the shame of a human beginning; and through conception, birth, and the cradle, and infant cries traversed the entire course of the reproach and humiliations of our nature. His humiliation is the ennobling of us, His reproach is our honor; that He as God
should abide in our flesh is in turn a renewal of us from fleshly nature into God. In return for the affection of so vast a condescension, for which the angels praise Your majesty, the dominations adore it, the powers tremble before it, the heavens, the heavenly virtues, and blessed seraphim with a common jubilation glorify it, we beseech You that we may be admitted to join our humble voices with theirs, saying—”

All: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth. Heaven and earth are full of Your glory. Blessed are You through the ages.”

While Martinus prayed onward, he and the other bishops each touched every piece of bread on the altar, and the chalice. “—This is the cup of the New Testament in My blood—” The prayers ended with the Lord’s.

Martinus: “Free us from evil, Lord, free us from all evil, and establish us in every good work, You Who live and rule with the Father and the Holy Spirit forever and ever.”

All: “Amen.”

The choir sang an anthem as the four bishops broke up the loaves of bread. They took care that no crumbs fall on the floor; it was now Christ’s body. Two subdeacons stood with peacock fans to keep away insects. The clergy took the Food and the Drink first, in order of rank, starting with Martinus; after them the choir, one at a time, while the rest sang antiphonally the Thirty-Fourth Psalm (“Oh, taste, and see, how gracious the Lord is—”); last the other laity, ending with the doorkeepers. As a communicant came to the altar, he or she held out the right hand cupped in the left, and Corentinus placed a fragment of bread in it, saying, “Receive the body of Christ.” The worshipper responded “Amen” and bowed head to take it. Thereafter he or she moved to the other end of the altar, where Martinus held out the chalice and said, “Receive the blood of Christ.” Again the worshipper said, “Amen,” bowed head, and sipped.