The Dog and the Wolf (45 page)

On their second day from Hivernia, a west wind sprang up. Rainsqualls and driving clouds hid every star or scrap of moon that night; in the morning, the position of the sun was a matter of guesswork. With the sky went knowledge of bearings. The ships wallowed on through ever heavier seas, through wet and cold and clamor.

“What foul luck,” growled Gratillonius when the next day brought no surcease.

“I wonder if luck is all it is,” replied Evirion.

“You’ve said what I did not want to say.”

Late that afternoon they saw white spouts and sheets to port. Evirion nodded. “The Bridge of Sena,” he reminded landsman Gratillonius—rooks and reefs strung out for miles west of the island. “We should clear them, going close-hauled, but ’twill be a near thing. The galleys will need hard rowing.”

Gratillonius snorted a laugh of sorts. “Naught like yonder kind of sight to put force in a man’s arms.” A jape was a shield.

Wind raved. Spindrift flew bitter. Pushed near the grounds, the farers saw billows crash on skerries and churn between them, foam turning their gray backs into snow-swirls. Spray dimmed sight, a flung-up fog under the hastening smoky clouds. It roared, snarled, hissed, as if dragons ramped within.

And yet the ships clawed off. Beneath strained sail or on straining oars, they lurched and pitched their way south. The dread that had grown within him began to loose its hold on Gratillonius’s heart. Soon, he thought, sometime in the endless hours before dark, they’d be past the trap.

Evirion cried out. The galleys were to port of the large ship. Shallower of draught and lower of freeboard, they let their crews see rocks that the waves half hid, in time to veer off and thus warn
Brennilis.
The one farthest in,
Wolf,
had abruptly turned east. She was bound straight for the surf.

“What in Lir’s name are they doing?” Evirion yelled. “Come back, you clodheads! Come back, Taranis thunder you!” The wind shredded his call, the breakers trampled it underhoof.

Eagle
swung about and bore west. Her oars flailed the water. Whatever they’d seen or heard aboard
Wolf,
the other crew had caught just enough of it to make them flee.

Gratillonius remembered what Maeloch had told him, and later Nemeta. He remembered the fight in the bay at dusk. For an instant the horror stopped his heart. Then he was again the commanding officer of his men. Amreth Taniti, the whole squad of marines from Ys, was in
Wolf.

He grabbed Evirion’s arm. “They’ve been lured,” he said above the skirl and thunder. “If we let them go,
they’ll drown.” And with them a goodly part of the treasure that could save their people—but it was the men, the men who filled his head.

“Christ have mercy,” the captain groaned. “What can we do?”

“Get me rowers for the lifeboat. Launch it. I’m going after them.”

Evirion gaped. “Have you gone mad too?”

“God damn it, don’t piss away what little time we’ve got!” Gratillonius snapped in Latin. “Jump to it, if you haven’t lost your balls overboard!”

Evirion’s face darkened. Gratillonius knew it was touch and go whether the young man would strike him or obey him.

Evirion was off along the deck, shouting into the wind.

Gratillonius came after, likewise bawling forth words. “Eight men for the rescue! Eight brave Christian men! You scuts, will you let that demon have your mates? Christ’ll ride with us!”

He was not at all sure of that. But Dahut, Dahut—when she was little he’d kept her from games that might be dangerous—she must not play at the bottom of the sea with the bones of men she murdered, because that could become her doom forever.

The eight were there. Gratillonius recognized a couple of pagans among them. Did they want to show they were as bold as anybody else? No matter. Unlash the boat, drag it over a wildly rolling deck, tilt it across the rail, lower it when that side swings toward the waves, slide down a rope into a hull awash, fend off, bail while the rowers took their oars and threw the strength of their backs against the sea.

Gratillonius emptied out a last bucketful, crawled over the thwarts to the forepeak, braced himself and stood half crouched, peering ahead. Wind savaged him and his waterlogged garments. Waves loomed wrinkled and clifflike on both sides, rumbled past, became surges up which the boat climbed till it poised in spume and shriek before plunging into the next trough. The galley grew in sight. Her crew had shipped their oars. He saw them dimly through the spray, crowded forward, while the wind chivvied
Wolf
toward the breakers. Those were a tangle of mist and violence. Were the men blind, deaf? What gripped them?

Through the noise, a voice; through the chaos, a vision. Somehow the ghastliest of everything was a sunbeam that struck through, blinked out, struck through to gleam on her wet whiteness. Naked she was, save for wildly blowing long hair and the same gold aglow at her loins, white and slender and entrancingly rounded; aye, her beauty had blinded them, and she held out her arms and sang to them. Unbearable in the fury around, the song’s clarity streamed forth to encoil the spirit; and what it promised, no man but a saint could flee.

Desire came ablaze in the blood. Gratillonius’s member leaped to throbbing stiffness. She was Belisama, she was Dahilis, she was there and he’d have her!

No, she was Dahut, and the vessel that he neared was drifting to shipwreck.

Had he watched and listened an instant longer, she would have caught him. To break free was like ripping his manhood out. His rowers had their backs to her, they had not seen, but they faltered. “Row!” he bellowed. “Row, you scoundrels! Stroke, stroke, stroke!” He drew his knife, wedged himself between the nearest, slashed whenever a head turned around. Twice he bloodied a cheek. Meanwhile he hurled noise out of his lungs, commands, oaths, snatches of prayer, lines from a marching song—“Again the tuba, the tuba calling: ‘Come, legionary, get off your duff!’”—anything to ram between that song and his men.

The boat thudded against the galley. He seized a rail and sprang across. Inboard, he stumbled over the benches to the crew. They stared before them. At the very bow was Amreth. The marine captain leaned far out, strained toward her who beckoned and sang.

Where the foam runs white on my breasts,

White, sparkling, beloved,

Your kisses course hot
—

Where the sun strikes up to your eyes,

Blue, sea-flung, beloved,

My gaze clings with joy
—

Come you here, as the sun joins the foam,

In all splendor, beloved,

Come cleave to me now
—

Let kissing join gazing, join splendor

With all that’s most fierce and most tender

Until our joined souls we both render

To Lir in His deep.

Gratillonius shouted. He struck with fists, feet, knees, brutally hard, whatever might shock them out of their daze. When he cast them down onto the benches, they sat hunched, shaking their heads. He wrestled oars back into place, clamped hands about them, hallooed deafening into ears: “Row! Row! Row!”

Did the song ring with victory? The galley sprang toward it. Gratillonius bounded aft. He seized the tiller and put it hard over. He should have had rowers on one side only, to make the turnaround fast. He dared not give the order. The men were stunned. They worked like oxen at a millstone. He must not risk their coming fully aware. The slowness raked him.

But then
Wolf
was headed back out. Gratillonius’s bulk blocked off sight of the one on the reef. “Stroke, stroke, stroke!”

In the bows, Amreth howled. He sprang. A wave bore him past the stern, toward Dahut.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke!” Gratillonius glared right and left. The lifeboat was also bound for safety. He hazarded a glance behind. Did he catch a last sight of him who swam, or was it seaweed or a piece of wreckage? No more sunlight kindled the foam-haze. There were only rocks and breakers.

The rhythm of the oars clattered to naught. Men gaped at each other. Emptiness in their eyes gave way to bewilderment. “What happened?” Gratillonius heard in tatters through the wind. “What came over me? A dream. … I can’t rightly remember—”

Eagle
coursed to join her sister and give help.
Brennilis
sailed on. Men crowded her port rail to cheer.

Gratillonius sagged at the rudder. He could let go of himself now.

Christ, if it was You Who stood by us, thank You. I wish I could honestly say more than that. Maybe later. I’m so tired, so wet, so wrung. All I want to do is crawl off and sleep. If I can. Maybe first, once I’m alone, I’ll weep. Forgive me, if You please, when I don’t weep for those we lost fighting in the islands or for Amreth my friend, but for Dahut.

4

“No doubt of it, sir,” Nagon Demari said.

Bacca raised his brows. “Oh? Just what are your sources?” he inquired. “You can’t be exactly beloved in those parts.”

Taken aback when the procurator did not at once hang on what he had to relate, Nagon answered sullenly, “I’ve got my ways.”

“Of course. In a position like yours, one must. But what do you yourself employ?”

Nagon stood before the seated man with his legs planted apart, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward, as if under a load. “Well, a couple of fellows who escaped from Ys, common dock workers they were, they’ve not forgotten what I once did for them and their kind. The great Grallon isn’t so wonderful in their eyes. For a little money, they’re glad to tell me things. Others—really need money, or they’ve got a grudge, or I’ve learned something about them they’d rather nobody knows.”

“The usual methods. You had experience in Ys. What is this latest news?”

“Not mere rumors. I went myself when I first heard those, and asked around. Not into town, you understand. The farms, the villages, places where they don’t always know who I am.”

“Nor are rustics apt to have much first-hand political knowledge of any kind. But what did you find them abuzz over?”

“Grallon’s back with another load of loot. This time he went and took it off pirates in—seems to’ve been the Britannic Sea.”

Bacca’s lips shaped a soundless whistle. “Indeed?”

“That’s the word, sir.” Exultation danced in the flat face, the small pale eyes. “You’ve got him! He’s finally overreached himself. Deliberately organized a military expedition, a civilian armed force. You can behead him!”

Bacca sat still for a minute or two. Nagon dithered.

The procurator sighed. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “You can’t have heard from anybody who took an actual part.”

“No, but word’s leaked out like through a sieve.’

“He’s known it would, and allowed for it.”

“Arrest a few men who did go, interrogate them under torture—”

“You’re an able man in your fashion,” Bacca said, “but statecraft is beyond you. Think, however. If we moved openly against Gratillonius, at this hour when he’s come home as a savior, why, we would quite likely have a rebellion on our hands. Do
you
want to explain that to the praetorian prefect? Do you imagine the lord Stilicho would praise our handling of the case? Meanwhile, Gratillonius and his worst troublemakers will have slipped off into the wilderness; and his friends the tribune and the bishop will insist this is all an unfortunate misunderstanding.

“No, we cannot act on a basis of gossip, no matter how well-founded it appears to be. You will speak no further of this to anyone whatsoever. Is that clear?’

Nagon’s countenance purpled. He lifted fists in air. “Was my work for nothing?” he cried. “Is that devil going to keep on his merry way and, and make a joke of us? Can’t you get it into your head, he’s
dangerous?”

Bacca held up a palm. “Softly. Watch your tongue, especially in the presence of your superiors.”

Nagon slumped. “I’m sorry, sir,” he got out.

“That’s better.” Bacca rubbed his nose and stared long at the opposite wall. Finally he said, “I do appreciate your efforts, and they do have value. I would have gotten wind of this one way or another, but belatedly and in much less detail than I imagine you can supply. What’s important, I think, is the knowledge that Gratillonius does now have at his beck a force capable of carrying out such an operation. Thus far it must be small. Being warned, we can take steps to prevent its further growth, until such time as we
are ready to eradicate it. … Success like his feeds on itself. We must insure that there are no more successes—no more missions for him and his irregulars. This requires—m-m, some very tactful discussion with … the Duke of the Armorican Tract. … Not to provoke him into ill-advised action against Confluentes. But to make clear to him that the help of such people is more to be feared than the onslaught of the barbarians. … Courage, Nagon. You’ve done well. Sit down, give me your full report. In due course you shall have an appropriate reward.”

5

Harvest brought wholeness.

“I’m not sleepy yet,” Gratillonius said. “I’ll go for a walk first.”

Verania yawned. She always did so in a way that made him think of a kitten. “Well, I’m quite ready for bed,” she admitted.

He chucked her under the chin. “I won’t be gone long. As soon as you’re healed, I won’t be gone at all.”

She gave him a heavy-lidded glance. “Speed the day.”

They kissed, less strongly or lingeringly than they desired. She was warm and supple against him. Memories of a skerry glimmered away for this while. “I’ll leave a light burning, of course,” she said. “Enjoy your walk. It is a beautiful evening.”

He stooped above the tiny, homely miracle in the crib. “Goodnight, Marcus.” He looked over his shoulder. “Ungracious rascal. I do believe he snored at me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Takes after his father, he does.” In haste: “Not really. Not in that way. You don’t often.”

His son, he thought. Bearer of the name. Her parents had supposed he chose “Marcus” for the Evangelist, and were pleased. Except for Verania, who went cheerfully along with the conspiracy, he wouldn’t disenchant them. His father in Britannia had been Marcus. Strange how this new life strengthened its own wellsprings, even those that had long since flowed into quietness.