The Dog and the Wolf (40 page)

His voice trumpeted: “Revenge for Ys! Kill yon sharks or they’ll be back for your wives and kids! Haul away, ye scuts!”

The men howled answer. They too were become hunters. Blood was on the wind. Usun shrugged and went aft to take over the helm. Oars poised ready to help. Rigging sang, timbers creaked. Os
prey
dashed forward with a bone between her teeth.

Maeloch took stance in the forepeak. He gripped his battle ax hard, though odds were that he’d have no need
of it. Despite the furiousness in him, he strained to see, he loosed every sense to keep watch. Better let the barbarians escape than suffer shipwreck. But he didn’t think either would happen. Aye, there was Torric’s Reef and there towered the Carline, passage between them was tricky but if you kept alert for surges—“Right oars, pull!”—you could slide straight through instead of going around—“Up oars! Port the yard a tad … so…. Make fast.”

The gap closed. He saw that the tall man in the golden helmet now had a flag of sorts. It fluttered in the wind like a bird caught by one wing.

Ahead, seas raged around the Wolf and her three Cubs. Steer wide, starboard. Close beyond were the currachs.

“Little Princess Dahut, tonight ye’ll sleep sound,” Maeloch said.

Whiter than foam, a shape darted from under the prow. He had barely time to see an arm lift, a hand crook fingers in summons.

Portside aft, fog rivered out of the bank that hid Sena. Suddenly it was there, Maeloch blind on his deck. He heard men yell, oars rattle. Wind dropped nearly to nothing. The sail slatted and banged.

With the speed she still had,
Osprey
drifted across the tide and struck.

It was a monstrous blow. Maeloch fell and rolled. He caught the rail and heaved himself to all fours. The hull slanted crazily. Again and again billows drove it onto stone. Timbers broke with a crack like thunder. The sea came aboard.

Maeloch saw a man reel past, and reached to catch him. The weight was too much. The man wore iron rings sewn to a leather jacket. He went over the side and straight down.

Wind sprang forth anew. It battered
Osprey
as the waves did. She broke apart.

Maeloch found himself swimming. The water trumbled him about. Whenever he got mouth in air, he snatched a breath. Then he was back in swirling darkness. He swam on. Fear was forgotten. He stood outside himself, watched the struggle, gave redes which his body tried to obey. Meanwhile he remembered Betha, their children, Tera,
the child of his that she bore. By every God there was, will They or nill They, he was coming home to them.

Stone scraped him flensingly. He caught hold, clung, crawled.

When he got up onto hardness, the fog had blown away. Early stars flickered in the wind. The moon tinged the breakers that brawled around. Strakes and spars dashed among the rocks. He saw nobody else.

Well, he’d hang on. Save in storms, the Wolf was never quite under water. Tomorrow boats would arrive in search. He beat arms across his chest. That might flog some warmth into him. Oh, Usun, old shipmate. …

The woman rose. She mounted the reef and walked toward him. Naked she was, dead white but for the deep hair, and smiling. She held out her hands.

He knew her. He was in a nightmare, he must wake, he stumbled back. “Dahut, nay!” he screamed.

At the water’s edge he could flee no farther. She reached him and embraced him. Her strength made naught of his. Her flesh was more cold than the sea. She bore him backward and downward. The last thing he saw before he went under was her smile.

Presently she rose anew and swam toward the currachs, to guide them on until they were safely out into Ocean.

1

The bishop’s house in Aquilo was modest, and under Corentinus had become austerely if not ascetically furnished. One room in it, small, whitewashed except for a Chi Rho on a wall, held a few things that were his own, mostly gifts of love given him over the years—a ship model, a conch shell, a glass goblet, a flower vase, the doll
of a little girl who had died—as if to lend him comfort. It was a room that heard much pain.

Gratillonius leaned forward on his stool. It was low; he sat hunched above lifted knees. The fists on them opened up beseechingly. “What have I done?” His words were thick with unshed tears.

Face to face with him, Corentinus answered gently, “You did what was right. Thank God you were able to do it.”

“But the cost. Maeloch; every man there who trusted me and died.”

“It was heavy. Not your fault. You didn’t have the proper professional force you needed.”

“Just the same—”

“Just the same, think what you have gained for us.” Corentinus counted off on knobbly fingers. “A loss to the barbarians at least as great. We may hope they take the lesson to heart and don’t come back here soon. That means, even in homes now grieving, a better life ahead. Also because of this, that you brought about, the people have a new sense of their own worth. Under you,
they
broke the wild men. I don’t believe Our Lord frowns on that kind of pride. And the booty. Since there’s no way to return it to its former owners, most of whom must be dead or fled anyway, you’re making a righteous division. Men, or their widows—good of you to remember the widows—have hard need of some money; and those who share with the truly poor will have boundless reward in Heaven. As for the bulk of it, you said something about your intentions before your misery crushed you.” He leaned over and clasped Gratillonius’s shoulder. The seamed and craggy visage softened. “They’re worthy of a Maccabaeus.”

The other man dropped his gaze to the floor. “That may be. Though I wonder if the gold isn’t cursed.” A shudder racked him. “The horror we met—”

Corentinus tightened his grasp. “That’s what’s shaken you so badly. You’ve only told me so far that a terrible thing happened at the end. What was it?”

Gratillonius fought for breath.

“Speak,” Corentinus urged. “You’ve already met the thing itself. Today you only have to name it.”

Still Gratillonius panted.

Corentinus laid both arms about him. “I’ll find out from others, you know,” he said quietly. “Better straight from you. What, old friend?”

Into the beard and the coarse robe, Gratillonius coughed, “It was, it was, it was Dahut My lost daughter Dahut there in the sea. She called me. She led me toward her lover Niall, who murdered Ys. An owl tried to stop him, she rose from the water and tried to drag it down, I don’t know any more myself, but, but, but Niall couldn’t have escaped, Maeloch couldn’t have been wrecked—w-w-without her—could they?” He clung tight.

Corentinus stroked his hair. “We’ve heard evil rumors,” he said. “This confirms them, I suppose. Except that the truth is worse. You’ve got to bear it, man. You can, soldier.”

“What can I
do?’

“I think you have done it already. Won a victory for your people. Now hold your spirit fast.”

After a while Corentinus could let go. He got up, poured two cups of diluted rough wine from a jug—this was a room that heard much pain—and brought them back. Gratillonius clasped his almost hard enough to splinter the wood. “Drink,” said Corentinus. “Our Lord did, the evening before His agony began. You are in yours.”

Gratillonius obeyed. Having taken a couple of swallows, he said dully, staring before him, “Dahut. She was a dear child. Like her mother.”

Standing above him, Corentinus shook his head and signed himself, unseen.

“How could it happen to her?” Gratillonius wondered. “How was it possible she could turn into this? Why?”

“That is a mystery,” Corentinus replied, “perhaps the darkest mystery of all.”

Gratillonius looked up, startled. “What is?”

“Evil. How it can be. Why God allows it.”

“Mithras—” Gratillonius stopped at the word.

“I know the Mithraic belief. It gives no real answer either. Oh, it claims to, the cosmic struggle between Ahura-Mazda and Ahriman. But that doesn’t really make sense, does it?”

“I left Mithras when Ys foundered.”

Corentinus smiled very slightly. “You did the right thing for the wrongreason, my son. Who are ye men, that we should hold tqpAlmighty to account why
should
we understand such things as evil? The christian faith is honest about it: we don’t and we can’t.”

“Then what?”

“You’ve heard, but refused to listen. What we do know is that in Christ is rescue from evil, and only in Christ. Not in this world, unless it be inside us, but the promise of salvation for us all.”

“All?” whispered Gratillonius.

“Who will accept it,” Corentinus finished for him.

Gratillonius rose. “Dahut also?”

For a moment Corentinus was caught off guard. He looked well-nigh daunted. Then he answered as mutedly, “I don’t know. I can’t see—But how could I dare set limits on God’s mercy? I’ll pray for her too if you truly wish.”

“I do,” Gratillonius said. “And … will you teach me more?”

2

Nobody now forbade that Evirion visit Nemeta.

The day was bright and the forest rejoiced. In green depths, sunlight speckled shadow and sweetnesses drifted. Doves cooed like a mother above a cradle. Swollen by recent rains, the Stegir rang and gleamed on its way to the Odita. Swallows and dragonflies darted lightning-blue above it.

He drew rein at the old oak and dismounted. She came out of her cabin. The fieriness of her hair set off how haggard her face had grown. She walked draggingly to meet him.

In his glee he did not notice until he hugged her. She responded with a slight pressure of her left arm. Stepping back, he saw how the right dangled. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did you hurt yourself?”

She twisted a grin. “In a way.”

“But this—” He pointed. “What did it?”

“A might greater than mine,” she said. “Never again will I fly.”

He did not understand at that moment. Later he would recall tales that had gone about concerning the battle of the bay, happenings he had been too busy fighting to witness. “Oh, poor darling!” Tears blurred sight of her. Men in Ys had not thought that unmanly. He blinked hard and reached to take her left hand between both his. “How can I help you? You’ve but to tell me.”

“Thank you,” she replied in the same monotone, “but I’ve no need. My father offered too, when he heard of this lameness.”

“You refused?”

She shrugged her left shoulder. “I’d have had to move back to Confluentes. What use, there, is a one-armed woman? Here I’m at least a small wood-witch. Men will come do what work I can’t myself, in return for my craft.”

He was always impetuous, but felt no surprise at his next words. They had been within him for some time. “Wed me! You’ll be a fine lady, with servants and, and my love.”

She smiled and shook her head. The green gaze mildened. “Nay. You’re kind and true, but you’re a Christian and I’d have to make pretense of that. Better to keep what freedom is mine.”

“Well, the devil with marriage, then. Come live with me.

”What of your standing in the city?”

He let go her hand and raised a fist. “That for the neighbors!” After a space, levelly: “They need me too much, the trade I bring them, for meddling in my affairs.”

“You’re away more than half the time.”

“Aye, your life could become wretched meanwhile. Sail with me.”

The idea would have shocked a Roman woman. Hope sparked in him when she regarded him quite calmly. It died out at her sadness: “I have lost all desire for men. Nor would I so fare, did I wish it. You’d have the worst of luck.”

“I can’t believe that. Why do you say it?”

“My Gods are angry with me. I told you I’ve crossed a power beyond aught I’ll ever command. They bestowed it. She who bears it would know and come after me.”

Rage flared. “And yet you serve those Gods!”

“I’ll make terms with Them if I can,” she said. Her look upon him turned hard. “By Them I keep my freedom. So They are still my Gods.”

Again he was silent a while. “And you are still your father’s daughter,” he said at last.

3

Window glass made greenish and somewhat dimmed the daylight in the room to which Apuleius took Gratillonius. It was like a patina of age on the wall panel paintings, and in fact they went back generations, to the building of this house—the formal woodlands and meadows, decorous fauns and dryads, cheerful shepherds and milkmaids. The air was grotto-cool and quiet.

Gratillonius had excused himself from sitting down—“I’m too restless”—so Apuleius courteously kept his own feet as the other man prowled. He had already had an account of the fight, heartily approved, softly offered sympathy at the way it ended. Today they both had work on hand.

“You’re right, we must move fast,” Apuleius said. “I can find three or four reliable agents; can you name one or two more? … Good. The captured galleys, I think we’d better resign ourselves to selling dirt cheap in Gesocribate.”

“No, I want to keep them,’ Gratillonius answered. “I’ve a notion they may come in useful.”

“Hm? Well, as you like. But leave them in some obscure place, a cove or stream or whatever, well away from here. We don’t want to be found in possession of them. Those few Scoti you took alive are less urgent, since they don’t speak Latin or Osismiic. I know a dealer who’ll take them on consignment. Don’t expect to get rich from that sale, either. The breed is considered too fierce for domestic service.”

“I wasn’t counting on much there,” Gratillonius said
impatiently. “What about the gold and silver, though? Coins, jewelry, plate. We found expensive cloth stuff too, and spices and wine and that sort of thing.”

“It can be stowed in private places. We want to move it rather slowly, piecemeal, so as not to attract attention.”

“But damnation, we need the money! I’ve given the men or their heirs their parts.”

“I know. That’s all right, because it’s thinly spread among unnotable persons. If their lot suddenly betters a little, who’s to notice?”

“The Imperium has its
eyes.
Postal couriers, for instance.”

Apuleius stroked his chin and smiled, “Of course. But our local observers report first to me. Over the years, I’ve seen to it that their stations are filled by … trustworthy men. An elementary precaution, commonly taken.”