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  He grew stern: “We shall not let witches live. Once the last of this Priscillianist obscenity is behind us—we’ll be sending agents to Hispania to root it out, down to bedrock—once that’s done and the West is secure, look for us to enter Ys and inquire into your stewardship. Therefore be zealous. To drive the lesson home, you’ll be led from here to receive five strong lashes, one for each wound that Our Lord suffered upon the Cross. No more, and with an unweighted whip. We are disposed to be merciful.”

  Gratillonius mustered strength to say, “I thank the Augustus.”

  “Good,” replied Maximus. “Thereafter you may return to your quarters and recuperate. Use the time well. Think about your errors, seek counsel, pray for the grace of the Holy Spirit. Then, whenever you are fit to travel, you may do so.”

  Dull though Gratillonius’s mind was, a flickering went through it. He dared not wonder if he was being wise before he said, “Augustus,”—how weakly his voice resounded in his skull—“you tell me to get advice… from learned men. Well, may I search for it elsewhere than here?”

  “What? Where else?” Maximus scowled. “No, do not linger in Caesarodunum Turonum. They’re devout there, but you might become confused about certain things.”

  “I meant farther south, sir. To Lugdunum, Burdigala, places where … many sages live.”

  “Are you quite right in your head? You’re no student, to sit at the feet of philosophers.”

  “The Augustus knows… we need a new Christian minister in Ys. That calls for searching. Not just anyone will do.”

  Maximus fell into thought. “His appointment is not yours to make,” he said at length, “but the Church will take your recommendation into account, I suppose. You may prove mistaken. Still, the idea is to your credit.” Again he paused. “And as for your personal request—well, why not? It should do your soul good to see more of the Empire, of Christendom, than this Northern fringe. And clergymen who were not involved in the affair here, they may appeal better to your heart.” Decision came. “You may travel freely, provided you stay within Gallia, conduct yourself properly, and take no longer than, oh, six months until you return to duty. My secretary will prepare a written authorization.”

  Wistfulness brushed him. “After all,” he said, “we were soldiers together, you and I, soldiers on the Wall. Go with God.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gratillonius made himself utter.

  Maximus’s glance went back to the documents before him. “Dismissed.”

  Gratillonius’s guards led him off to the whipping post.

  6

  Four-and-twenty legionaries, fully encountered, marched out of the rain into the common room of the hostel. They shooed the help away and came to attention, ranked, before the couch where Gratillonius lay on his side to spare his back. Lamplight made their metal gleam against the shadows that had stolen in with eventide. As one, they saluted. “Hail, Centurion!” rolled forth.

  He sat up. The blanket fell off him. “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “By your leave, sir,” Adminius replied, “we’re ’ere for yer judgment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The deputy must wrench the words out: “We ’eard wot ’appened, and ’ow it was our stupid fault. Word’s got around, you see. Sir, w-w-we wants ter make it good, if we can. Only tell us wot ter do.”

  Budic’s lip quivered. Uncontrollable tears ran down his cheeks. “That I should have betrayed my centurion!” he nearly screamed.

  “Quiet, you,” Adminius snapped. “Bear yerself like a soldier. Sir, we await yer orders. If you can’t tell nobody ter flog us, we’ll do it ter each other. Or anything you want.”

  “We haven’t yet found out who hurt you,” said Cynan starkly, “but when we do, they’re dead men.”

  Shocked, Gratillonius got to his feet. “Are you a Roman?” he exclaimed. “I’ll have none of that. They did their duty, under orders, as Rome expects you will. If anything rates punishment, that notion of yours does. Kill it.”

  A part of him noticed that he hadn’t gone dizzy this time, rising. Anger was a strong tonic. But he was recovering pretty fast, too. That knowledge went through him in a warm wave. He looked upon his men in their misery, and suddenly had to blink back tears of his own.

  “Boys,” he said with much carefulness, “you’re not to blame. I never instructed you to keep silence, because I never expected trouble myself. Who would have? And let me say, this show of loyalty damn near makes me glad of what happened. It hasn’t done me any real damage anyway, aside maybe from a few extra scars. Give me three or four days more, and I’ll be ready for the road.”

  “To Ys, sir?” Adminius blurted.

  Gratillonius shook his head. “Not at once.”

  “Well, wherever the centurion goes, all ’e’ll need is ter whistle us up. Eh, lads?”

  The squadron rumbled agreement.

  “I’m not likely to require much of a troop in the South, where I’m bound,” Gratillonius said, “and as for Ys—Shut in here, I’ve had time to think. Some of you are likely homesick, after all your while in foreign parts. I can probably dispense with a Roman cadre, the way things are now set up in Armorica. Before leaving Treverorum, I can try to arrange reassignments for you, to your proper units in Britannia.”

  “Wot, sir? No!”—“Not me.”—“Please, I want to stay.”—“We’re your men, sir.”

  “You’re Rome’s men,” Gratillonius reminded them sharply. Behind his mask of an officer, he wondered. Barbarian warriors gave allegiance not to any state but to their chieftains. Was the Empire breeding its own barbarians? He thrust the chilling question aside. He could not penalize love.

  Also, he could not be entirely sure that there would be no further use in Ys for these roadpounders of his.

  “Well, think it over, and quickly,” he said. “I told you, I’m starting off soon, and whoever comes with me will be gone a long time.” He drew breath. “Thank you for your faithfulness. Dismissed.”

  “’Bout face!” Adminius barked. “Off ter barracks. I’ll follow shortly. Want a private word with the centurion first.”

  When the rest had tramped out the door, Gratillonius reseated himself and looked up at the thin face. He saw brashness abashed. “Well, deputy, what do you want?” he asked.

  “Urn, sir, I don’t mean ter get above myself, but—could I speak freely, like? Man ter man.”

  Warmth rose afresh in Gratillonius. He smiled. “Go right ahead. If you overstep, I’ll simply tell you.”

  “Well, um—” Adminius wrung his hands and stared downward. “Well, sir,” he said in a rush, “the centurion is a man, very much a man, but ’e’s been through a ’ard time, after driving ’imself so ’ard, and now means ter begin again, sooner than wot a medic might call wise. It’s not for me ter tell yer ’ow to be’ave. But we in the troop do worry about yer. You’re getting your strength back, seems. But where’s any pleasure? A man can’t go on forever with no fun, no little rewards ter ’imself. Not unless ’e’s a flinking saint, ’e can’t. Could I, or anybody, ’elp the centurion to a bit of re-cre-ation? I’d be that glad, I would.”

  “You’re kind,” Gratillonius said, “but the food and drink are tolerable in this place, and—I am a marked man, who’d better watch his step. Enough.”

  “No, not enough! Listen, sir. I know it wouldn’t do ter bring a woman in ’ere, or anything like that. But if you go out, would a spy follow? I don’t think so.”

  Gratillonius chuckled. “I haven’t made your acquaintance with the sort of house you have in mind.”

  “No, sir, you’re a very serious-minded man. But listen, if you would like a bit of sport, let me recommend the Lion’s Den inn at the end of Janus Way. Can’t miss it. It’s safe, draws a nice class of customer, and the drinks and the games are honest, the girls are clean, and right now they’ve got the damnedest band of musicians you ever ’eard. That’s if you want, of course. I’ve said my piece. If the centurion ’as nothing else for me, goodnight,
sir, and do be good to yerself.” Adminius saluted and bolted.

  Gratillonius laughed. He hadn’t done that since his arrest. It was a grand feeling. What a dear bunch of mother hens he led!

  At that, he thought, the deputy had a point. Before setting off on what was, after all, business of the most serious, he’d be well advised to refresh his spirit, get out of this dull dwelling, to where winds could blow the lingering horrors from his head. A vintner who’d been hospitable, and his pretty daughter—

  The girl was doubtless chaste—

  Gratillonius felt the stirring in his loins. And that had not happened either, following his imprisonment, until now. Fear about it had begun to nag him….

  By Hercules, but he’d been long deprived! And he’d spend additional months before coming back to his wives. Into his wives. The visions flamed up. Oh, he’d been told that some or other spell made it impossible for a King of Ys to possess any but the Gallicenae. That was in Ys, though, hundreds of leagues away at the far, lonely end of Armorica, Ys Whose gods he had in his heart forsworn and Who were fading away into myth. What power had They left Them? As he recalled the comfort that lay in a woman’s arms and breasts, the forgetfulness of self that lay between her legs, his rod lifted fully. When he regained his feet, it stayed firm.

  He cast hesitation aside, fetched his cloak, and went forth into a fine rain that he thought really should steam off his flesh.

  —She was a big young blond whose guttural accent somehow excited him the more. He didn’t quite make out her name, but she told him she was from east of the border. Hard pressed these days, many half-civilized Germani drifted across the Rhenus in search of employment, and often women trailed along. Roman authorities usually looked the other way, what with a labor shortage acute and worsening. While she talked and her right hand raised the cup of mead he had bought her, her left began to explore his person.

  He paid the fee for two turns and they went upstairs. None of his Queens would ever know if he could help it, but if perchance they found out, surely most would understand that a man has needs.

  A couple of tallow candles burned in the cubicle where her bed was. Their rankness was exciting too, like animals in rut. His member throbbed. She pulled off her gown and stood smiling at him. Her bosom was heavy above a rounded white belly and a patch that the wan light shaded but that gave off brass glints. He scrambled out of his clothes.

  Then he felt the coldness and the shriveling. His knees shook, his pulse rattled.

  They lay down and she tried this and that. Nothing availed. Finally she said, “Vell, too bad, but I got to go vork, you know?” He sighed and nodded. There was no mention of a refund.

  —He groped his way through night, back toward the hostel. It had been foolish not to carry a lantern. The rain fell heavier than before, with a wind to dash it into his eyes and hoot between walls. Chill sneaked under his cloak.

  So, he thought. I am once for all the King of Ys. Anywhere I may be, as long as we both shall live.

  Despite himself, he smiled a bit. Then maybe they’re not mistaken about other things in Ys, he thought. Maybe the soul of Dahilis is still somewhere thereabouts, waiting for me.

  He could almost believe that something of hers had watched over him. He was in search of the highest consecration to Mithras. His hypocrisy before Maximus still tasted nasty in his mouth, necessary though it had seemed. At least now he was, like it or not, free of any further impurity.

  IV

  1

  Even without the need to make fortifications each afternoon and demolish them the next morning, the march to Lugdunum took half a month. It might have gone faster, but Gratillonius wanted to assure himself of complete recovery. He had seen what could happen when men overtaxed their healing bodies. Also, he had been unable to obtain sufficient rations for his squadron in Treverorum, but must needs get them piecemeal at way stations. Several were out of commission, which meant delay while soldiers searched and dickered. Maximus’s war had caused some of the damage. More was due to incursions of Franks and Alemanni. The Romans had succeeded in driving those barbarians out ten years ago, then lacked funds and labor for complete restoration.

  The countryside was beautiful, but autumn travelled south with the troop, bearing downpours and shivery winds. Journey’s end and roofs overhead felt good indeed. Gratillonius gave his soldiers and himself a few days to rest, see the great city, and take what pleasures were available. He knew they would be close-mouthed, and in any event he had not confided his real purpose to them, except for Adminius. The deputy’s Christianity was nominal, and his boyhood in the Londinium slums had taught him how to learn much while revealing nothing.

  Gratillonius felt it best to keep his own inquiries abut Mithras worship incidental to those about possible clergy for Ys. The latter questions were the merest token. He knew full well that such an appointment could only be made in the North. However, if secret agents demanded a report on him, this should satisfy them.

  Whatever guilt he felt had left him as he sat hour by hour in the saddle or lay alone in his tent at night. It was Maximus who was the betrayer. He had not strengthened the Empire, he had split it asunder as Roman slew Roman. He had not given it peace and prosperity, he had raised persecution and fear. He had broken pledge after pledge, to Gratianus, to Martinus, to poor old Priscillianus, to the Senate and the People of Rome; how long would he keep his to Valentinianus? He proposed to violate the ancient compact with Ys. Gratillonius disliked practicing deception, but such knowledge about his commandant had eaten away his resistance to it.

  Seeking a better mood, he wandered around Lugdunum and found marvels, stately public buildings, baths, theater, and, outside its walls, sculptured tombs, magnificent aqueducts, an artificial lake for mimic sea battles. While many warehouses stood hollow, commerce still flowed along rivers and roads. Though poverty lurked in tenements and alleys, joviality flourished in taverns, foodstalls, bawdyhouses, odeions, the homes of the well-to-do. Few folk seemed to worry about much besides their private lives, unless they be devout Christians intent on the after-world.

  No Mithraeum survived here, but presently Adminius heard that one was left in Vienna, some twenty miles south. Gratillonius’s spirits lifted. He ordered departure the following day. None of the twenty-four asked why, or what else he had in mind.

  A considerably lesser city on the left bank of the Rhodanus, Vienna nevertheless possessed its splendors, including a large circus and a temple that Claudius Caesar had erected four hundred years ago. More to the point, military accommodations and civilian amenities were adequate. The troop might be staying for some time.

  Adminius had ferreted out the name and location of Lucas Orgetuorig Syrus, a wine merchant. Walking thither the day after his arrival, Gratillonius found a house with a moderately prosperous shop. Syrus proved to be an old man whose features, despite generations of intermingling, bore traces of his family’s Asiatic origin. When Gratillonius gave him the initiate’s grip, his dim eyes widened, then filled with tears, and he came near collapse. Rallying, he took the newcomer to a private room, where Gratillonius made the signs of reverence before speaking those secret words that identified his rank in the Mysteries as Persian.

  “Be welcome, oh, very welcome, my son,” Syrus quavered. “It’s been so long since any of the faithful appeared who were young and strong. Are there more like you?”

  Gratillonius nodded. “Three, Father, men of my company. Two have the rank of Occult. The third joined us a couple of years ago. He’s only a Raven, of course.”

  “He has not been advanced? Why not? Advancement should be swift, when we are so few, so few—” The voice trailed off.

  “How can it be, Father, with none superior to me where we’ve been? That’s why I’ve sought you, that, and the hope of your blessing.”

  “The blessing you have, my son, but… but let us be seated. I’ll call for refreshment and we’ll talk. Or am I being selfish? Should I first send for Cotta? He’s our Runner
of the Sun, he deserves to hear. Oh, I must share these glad tidings with him.”

  “Later, Father, I beg.” Gratillonius assisted the frail form to a bench. “Did you wish drink? Permit me to call a servant.”

  Conversation went haltingly. Syrus had not lost his wits, but they were apt to wander, and twice he dozed off for a few minutes as he sat. Gratillonius learned this congregation existed on sufferance, provided it stay discreet and refrain from any hint of proselytization. It might have been banned altogether, as the Imperial decree required; but Syrus’s family had money and his son carried weight in civic affairs. Although himself a Christian, the younger man did not care to see his father’s heart broken. Death would close down the Mysteries soon enough.

  Gratillonius explained his desire as best he could. “I know it’s a great deal to ask, such a promotion, especially when I can’t stay here long. It may be impossible. If so, I ask forgiveness for presuming. But if it can be done—if I can be raised to your rank, Father—why, Ys will have a temple of the God, and full celebration of His rites, proper instruction for the young, elevation of worshippers. The faith will live!”

  “A wonderful vision, my son,” Syrus whispered. “Foredoomed, I fear, but wonderful. Mithras, sentry at the frontier of the dark—” His head drooped, snapped back up; he gulped air. “I must think, study, pray. It is irregular. But, but I wish—how I wish—Can you come to services tomorrow sundown? Bring your fellow believers. It will be a common rite, they too may take part, and welcome, welcome—”

  Gratillonius gave him an arm and upbore half his weight when he shuffled off to bed.

  —Mithraeums had never been large. The one in Vienna consisted of a single room in Syrus’s house. Its windows had been boarded up and plastered over to simulate a cave. Benches along the walls left just a strip of aisle between. A cord at the entrance end marked off the vestibule. Neither font nor image of lion-headed Time stood there, only a basin for holy water. At the sacrificial end, the Bullslaying and the Torchbearers were merely painted above a table that did duty for an altar. Nothing was squalid; wax candles gave light, incense sweetened the air. But of the handful of regular attenders, every head was gray or white.