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  “I’ll return,” he said.

  She drew a ragged breath. “Aye, since you’ve promised it. But how long will you stay? You surely yearn back to your homeland.”

  He lay for a spell, unspeaking. The question haunted him too, but nobody else had raised it. He was astounded that this meek person should. And what in Ahriman’s name was the answer?

  Of course there was a great deal yet to do in Ys, and he hated leaving a task unfinished. The challenge here called him beyond himself. The making of a useful thing in statecraft was muddled and never really complete, unlike the making of a thing in woodcraft. Just the same, the satisfactions bore no comparison to each other. He had shaped history and law, he had raised bulwarks for the lives of people…. What would come of it all? A barbarian wave had broken itself against Ys, but the tide of barbarism was still at the flow, over land as well as sea. Could he abandon the defenses he had been building?

  And yet, never to have a son, if it was true what chronicles and belief said. To abide among aliens until the last death-fight in the Wood made an end of him—

  And meanwhile, would those duties truly have been so important? Once the rule of Maximus was firm, his peace would soon reach this far. Likewise, in due course, would his law. What then would be left for the King of Ys? Ceremonies; routines; judgments that made a difference to the parties concerned but were yawnfully tedious for the judge, and as readily rendered by somebody else.

  Even now, calm was descending. Though northern Britannia seemed again troubled, the rest of that diocese lay secure. Communications had redeveloped to the point where Gratillonius had had three letters from his father, and sent back replies. To visit the villa once more! Not that he’d accept the wretched curial existence of his free will; but he shouldn’t have to. Given the tiniest hint, Maximus Augustus ought to confer senatorial rank on a man who had served him well. And mighty work remained to do in the outer world, reform of the state, subjugation of the barbarians, binding of wounds upon Mother Rome, winning of fame immortal.

  Was that his wish?

  If not, why not? Ys would never consentingly let its King depart for good. In the past he had wondered about cutting his way free, he and his legionaries or a rescue expedition from outside. But that thought was obsolete—which gladdened him, because he recoiled from any idea of killing his subjects. Come the time, he need merely make a pretext for another journey, and fail to return. It wouldn’t hurt the city’s institutions too badly. Precedents existed; not every king had died in the Wood. The Suffetes would get somebody—until, no doubt, the Christians came to power here also, and made an end of those bloody successions.

  Three years hence, let us say, what reason would Gratillonius have to dwell in Ys?

  Well, status, friends, his wives, or certain among them, and Dahut, whom he could smuggle out but would that be the best thing for her?

  Innilis nestled against him, weeping most quietly. “Nay, I will abide,” he said, and wondered how much of a liar he was, “as long as the Gods allow.”

  II

  1

  “Again the tuba, the tuba calling:

  ‘Come, Legionary, get off your duff!’

  The hobnails rising, the hobnails falling,

  We’re bound for glory, or some such stuff.

  Farewell, dear wenches! There’s time to kiss you

  And gulp a beaker before we go.

  The Lord on high knows how we will miss you,

  So give us memories that will glow.”

  It was one of the old, interminable, nonsensical songs that men had sung as they marched from Pontus to Hispania, from Egypt to Caledonia, and beyond, in the service of Rome. Footfalls crashed rhythmically beneath its beat. Words rang into the woodlands bordering the highway, until they lost themselves among trees and shadows. This was mostly second-growth forest, beech, elm, hornbeam, though here and there gloomed a huge oak, hallowed perhaps since before the first Caesar, until cultivation died away a hundred or more years ago. Leaves were still thick, full of greenish-gold light, but some had begun to turn color. The air below was windless, cool, scented by damp earth. Overhead were fewer wings than last month; many birds had, by now, departed south.

  Riding at the front of his two dozen infantrymen and their pack animals, Gratillonius saw stone pavement run straight before him until, at a dim distance, it went from sight in one of those curves that had been the engineers’ reluctant concession to terrain. Behind him lay turbulent Condate Redonum, where soldiers of his had nearly gotten into a fight with members of the Frankish garrison. Ahead, he had been informed, was the Liger valley, rich and well populated as of yore. At Juliomagus he would swing east and follow the great river for a while. His route was not the shortest possible, but almost entirely, it followed roads like this. Spared slogging through mud in the wet season, and most often spared the toil of preparing a walled and ditched camp—because well-secured official hostels stood along the way, near which they could simply pitch their tents—the men should make their best time to Augusta Treverorum.

  They were eager too. While they had all become fond of Ys, and several had formed strong ties, the hankering to be back among things Roman was only natural. That had been a large part of his reason for taking the whole twenty-four as his escort, and nobody else. As for the rest of his reason, he wasn’t quite sure, but he had a notion that Magnus Maximus would not take kindly to a spokesman native to witchy Ys.

  Otherwise his feelings were happy. He also was bound home to his people.

  “I’m getting old and my joints are creaky,

  The lentils grumble within my gut,

  My tentmates snore and the tent is leaky,

  And come a combat, I might get cut.

  But never mind, we have got our orders.

  So cheer up, fellows, for I do think

  When we have crossed over foreign borders

  There will be wenches, and lots to drink!”

  “O-old!” Adminius cried. The deputy could bring a surprising volume out of his narrow chest. “Battle ranks!”

  Gratillonius heard clatter and scramble. He drew rein. Gravel scrunched to silence on the shoulder where he rode. Glancing back, he saw the vexillation quickly bring the animals together and themselves in position either to protect or attack. He’d kept them in crack training.

  Adminius trotted over to him. “Being cautious, sir,” he said. “Wot does the centurion want we should do?”

  Gratillonius peered ahead. No danger was obvious in the mounted man who had come around the curve and was galloping their way. As he spied them, he waved and shouted frantically, and kicked his horse to go faster. The beast was sweaty but not yet lathered; it hadn’t carried him far. The man was portly, with black hair cut short and a close-cropped fringe of beard in the Roman style, but tunic and trousers showed him to be a Gaul. Soon Gratillonius made out a dull-red splotch on his left thigh, from which edges of cloth flapped back. A flesh wound. That went with the condition of the horse.

  “No pursuit,” Adminius deemed. “’E’s escaped. Didn’t seem worth chasing, I s’pose.” He squirted a gob of spit from a gap between teeth. His thin, sandy-stubbled face crinkled in a grin. “Well, they didn’t know anybody like us was anywhere near, eh, sir?”

  Beneath Gratillonius’s calm went an ugly thrill. “We’ll wait and hear what he’s got to say.”

  The Gaul halted in front of them. For a moment the only sounds were the whickering breath of the horse and the man’s gasps. His eyes rolled. At length he got out, “Romans! Legionaries! God be praised! Quick, and you may yet save us!”

  The Latin was fairly good, with an accent that Gratillonius recognized as that of the Namnetes. He had come as far south as their seaport two years ago, when he was trying to link the cities of the littoral in cooperation against barbarians and neutrality in the civil war. “The sooner you make sense and tell me what the matter is, the sooner we may be able to do something about it,” he snapped.

  “Bacaudae—” the
man groaned.

  “That’s no news. Let’s have facts.”

  The stranger gulped, shuddered, mastered himself in some degree. “My wagon train… goods out of Armorica and Britannia… left Redonum…. Bishop Arator and his attendants joined us there, bound for a conference in Portus Namnetum. We’d been told the route was safe. I b-b-brought guards anyway, of course. But now, in th-th-this forsaken stretch… suddenly, there they were, scores of the vilest robbers springing out of the woods and—” He plucked at Gratillonius’s wrist. “God aided me to flee, because I found you. Don’t delay! It’s only two or three leagues. The guards will fight. You can get there in time. God calls you!”

  The centurion spent a flash considering. His mission took primacy. However, his squadron should be a match for any plausible number of outlaws; banditry required suppression; and if word got about that he had been less than zealous in the cause of a prelate, he might as well turn land pirate himself. Worse could be the consequences to Ys.

  “On the move!” he barked. Adminius shouted commands. Metal gleamed as the formation reshaped itself and started off.

  The Gaul kept his horse alongside Gratillonius’s. “Can’t you go faster?” he pleaded.

  The centurion shook his head. “Three or four miles at a dead run in full armor wouldn’t leave the boys fit for much. We’ll do what we can. I promise nothing. We may find everybody in your convoy lying throat-cut, and your merchandise gone with your animals. In that case, I can’t pursue. We’re on urgent business of the state. I can only ask the garrison commander in Juliomagus to try for vengeance.”

  He felt no great excitement. If he could save yonder folk and kill marauders, that was fine. It depended on how long the guards could hold out. The steady, relentless tramp at his back had carried Rome’s eagles across the world.

  “Tell me what to expect,” he said. “First, what strength did you have?”

  The merchant swung his hands and sometimes keened over the loss he might suffer, but piece by piece, the tale came forth. He was one Florus, a dealer in fabrics. With money what it was these days, he most commonly traded rather than bought and sold, which meant he handled a variety, not just cloths but leathers, furs, raw materials. “This trip my best acquisition was a consignment of those wonderful weavings they do in Ys, that have scarcely been seen for many years, oh, priceless…” The train consisted of four mule-drawn wagons; their drivers; the reverend bishop with two priests and four deacons; Florus himself; and six guards, toughs who hired out for this kind of duty despite the law frowning on it. Two were Gauls, three were Frankish laeti, and one was a brown-skinned person who said nothing about himself but might well be a deserter from the army. “We take what we can get, right, Centurion? We make do.” The guards had sword or ax, plus a few spears. Their armor amounted to boiled leather jackets, cheap kettle helmets, shields of barbarian type. Then, to be sure, the muledrivers possessed knives, cudgels, whips. And three of the deacons were young and sturdy, equipped with stout walking staffs. “They should be able to fend off the evildoers a while, don’t you think? But hurry, hurry!”

  “How did you get away?” Gratillonius inquired.

  “Oh, I was mounted, by the mercy of God, and when they swarmed out it was clear what they intended, and by God’s grace they didn’t close a line across the road to the north before I’d gone past. They almost did. You can see where a spear hurt me. Do you have a surgeon with you? Or at least poultices? This kind of injury inflames so readily. It hurts me abominably.”

  “We’re not stopping for anything just yet, friend. Why did you flee? One more man defending might make all the difference.”

  “But I had to get help. God saw to it that I could get help.” Florus’s voice sank to a mutter. “That means the goods will be safe, doesn’t it, O Lord? You’d not let Your faithful servant be ruined, almighty God Who delivers us from evil.”

  Gratillonius snorted and sent his horse a little ahead.

  Slowly the tumult became visible from afar. Noise drifted thin. Gratillonius signalled for double time. He was tempted to speed in advance for a better look. It was getting hard to see any distance as the sun declined and dusk began to seep out of the earth. He resisted the impulse. He had no right to take unnecessary risks. Solitary heroics were for barbarians and fools.

  Yonder they grew aware of his approaching force. He saw the struggle die down, like a wave that smashed itself on a reef outside Ys, recoiled in foam, and dwindled away. The next wave was coming….

  He reined in and jumped to the ground. The men saw his intention and needed but a minute to tether the horses. “You, keep out of the way!” he told Florus. He unslung his shield from the harness, slipped the retaining strap over his neck, gripped the handle, drew blade and took his place as leader. The squadron advanced.

  Nearing, he saw that the battle was almost done. The travellers had given a good account of themselves. Somehow they’d gotten three wagons on the sides of a square, cutting loose the mules, which might well panic. There hadn’t been time to bring the fourth around, it stood off where the robbers must have led it, but a crude little fort existed. While three guards held fast at the open side, their comrades and certain of the other men repelled foes who sought to climb over the vehicles or crawl underneath.

  Yet they could not long keep off assailants whom Gratillonius estimated to number thirty. As he guessed at once, they were still alive—some of them—only because the bandits lacked proper training and discipline. After being cast back with losses, the outlaws milled around, none wanting to be the first to meet that steel again. They tried to bargain. Gratillonius learned afterward that the bishop had strengthened the will to resist, calling on divine help, while he cleverly strung the talk out. At length the brigands lost patience and made a fresh charge. It failed likewise, though at heavy cost to the defenders.

  After that, the attackers had resorted to slings. Kept up, the bombardment would have done its job. The travellers took wounds and a couple more deaths. However, they had enough protection to be difficult targets, and eventually the supply of missiles was exhausted. Yet the defense was now so weakened that the bandit leader could egg his men on to a third assault. It broke through and was in among the wagons when the legionaries arrived.

  Gratillonius took his troop toward chaos. The outlaws were Gauls, in ragged, filthy garb, pieced out with hides or old blankets or whatever else came to hand. Hair and beards were matted, greasy manes, out of which glared faces gaunt, scarred, weatherbeaten. Shoes were agape, rudely mended, or mere bags of skin stuffed with grass. The barbarians who raided Britannia were better off. Weapons were spears, knives, pruning hooks, firewood axes, a few swords acquired somehow. The wielders screamed hatred and defiance at the Romans. At the same time, those on the fringe were pulling back, making for the trees, in disorderly fashion. They knew that if they stood their ground they’d be butcher’s meat.

  Which was exactly what they ought to be. “Right and left!” Gratillonius called. “Circle them!” He leading a detachment, Adminius its mate, his men hastened to bag as many as they could.

  Those inside the laager could not readily disengage from opponents who, heartened, fought furiously. It had never been a proper battle at all, but more like a riot. It pushed combatants apart, flung them against their fellows, sent them tripping over each other. Somebody fallen but alive might grab at an ankle or cling to a spearshaft. Wrestlers on the ground further impeded everyone.

  First from the soldiers went the terrible flight of javelins. Meant for use against shields, here they struck unprotected flesh. Men fell, writhed, shrieked. Those who tried to help them to safety were themselves delayed. And then the legionaries were upon them.

  A fair-haired youth with downy whiskers attempted to dodge past Gratillonius. The centurion gave him the sword between rib cage and pelvis, forcing the blade right and left to make sure of the liver. Flesh resisted softly, heavily, helplessly. The lad went down. Before Gratillonius could pull his weapon free,
a full-grown man was at him, weeping, howling, belly wide open as he swung his arms back for an ax blow. Gratillonius rammed the boss of his shield into the solar plexus. Breath whooped from the Gaul. He dropped his ax and fell to his knees. Gratillonius crashed the bottom rim of his shield against the man’s temple. The Gaul crumpled.

  Gratillonius had delivered a knockout blow he hoped wasn’t fatal. He wanted prisoners to bring to Juliomagus for beheading, or whatever the judgment would be—examples. He withdrew his sword. Blood pumped forth. A stump end of gut protruded past the tattered shirt. “Mother,” the youth wailed, over and over. Gratillonius went on. The whole episode had taken just a minute or two, scarcely interrupting the rhythm of onslaught.

  He saw a cluster of men pass under the trees, disappearing amidst boles and brush. They bore along a figure robed and struggling. He had no chance to think about it. He only had a fleeting perception of one who seemed in charge, slender, swift of motion, uniquely well clad. After that, Gratillonius was busy finishing the engagement.

  —The legionaries had suffered no harm worth mentioning. Of the travellers, besides Florus, there survived, slashed and battered but reasonably hale, two Frankish men-at-arms, three drivers, a priest, and a deacon. The rest lay stretched out on the roadside, blood wiped off as best might be, dead or dying. The clergyman had already prayed over them.

  And Bishop Arator was missing.

  As for the robbers, a full twelve had fallen in battle or, hopelessly wounded, received the mercy stroke. Their bodies were stacked on the opposite side of the road. Nobody had cleansed them, closed staring eyes or tied up fallen jaws, but the kindly shadows were well on the way to covering them. Six captives sat bound to the wagons.

  Nobody said much. Most of the survivors were still too stunned. Now and then pain made somebody moan. Otherwise they huddled, shivered, looked emptily before them, clutched the bread and wine that had been passed out. The soldiers were in full self-possession but occupied with making a safe camp, since they would spend the night here. An occasional sentence, grunt, oath sounded beneath the thud of axes, the sucking noise as spades turned wet humus.