The Dog and the Wolf by Poul Anderson Read Free Book Online Page A

there are conditions. First and foremost, they were right as far as they went in Audiarna. We cannot allow a nest of pagans in our midst. You must renounce those Gods, Gratillonius.”
    The Briton blinked the tears off his lashes, tasted the salt on his mouth, and replied, “They were never mine.”
    Corentinus said, like a commander talking of an enemy who has been routed at terrible cost, “I don’t think we’ll have much trouble about that, sir. How many among the survivors can wish to carry on the old rites? Surely too few to matter, except for their own salvation. Let most hear the Word, and soon they will come to Christ.”
    “I pray so,” Apuleius answered solemnly. “Then God may be pleased to forgive one or two of my own sins.”
    “Your donation will certainly bless you.”
    “And my family?” Apuleius whispered.
    “They too shall have many prayers said for them.”
    Both men’s glances went to Gratillonius. He evaded them. Silences thickened.
    “It would be unwise to compel,” Corentinus said at length.
    The door opened. Light glowed. “Oh, pardon me, father,” said the girl who bore the lamp. “It’s growing so dark inside. I thought you might like to have this.”
    “Thank you, my dear,” said Apuleius to his daughter.
    Verania entered timidly. It seemed she had taken the bringing upon herself, before it occurred to her mother to send a slave. Gratillonius looked at her and caught her look on him. The lamp wavered in her hand. She had barely seen him when he arrived, then the womenfolk and young Salomon were dismissed from the atrium.
    How old was she now, he wondered vaguely—fourteen, fifteen? Since last he saw her, she had filled out, ripening toward womanhood, though as yet she was withy-slim, small-bosomed, barely up to his shoulder if he rose. Lightbrown hair was piled above large hazel eyes and a face that—it twisted in him—was very like the face of Una, his daughter by Bodilis. She had changed her plain Gallic shift for a saffron gown in Roman style.
    She passed as near to him as might be in the course of setting the lamp on the table. “You are grieved, Uncle Gaius,” she murmured.
    What, had she remembered his nickname from her childhood? Later Apuleius had made her and her brother be more formal with the distinguished visitor.
    “I brought bad news,” he said around a tightness in his gullet. “You’ll hear.”
    “All must hear,” Apuleius said. “First we should gather the household for prayer.”
    “If you will excuse me.” Gratillonius climbed to his feet. “I need air. I’ll take a walk.”
    Apuleius made as if to say something. Corentinus gestured negation at him. Gratillonius brushed past Verania.
    Within the city wall, streets were shadowed and traffic scant. Gratillonius ignored what glances and hails he got, bound for the east gate. It stood open, unguarded. The times had been peaceful since Ys took the lead in defending Armorica. Watchposts down the valley sufficed. How much longer would that last?
    Careless of the fact that he was unarmed, Gratillonius strode out the gate and onward. His legs worked mechanically, fast but with no sense of vigor. A shadowy part of him thought how strange it was that he could move like this, that he had been able to keep going at all—on the road, in council, at night alone.
    The sun was on the horizon. Level light made western meadows and treetops golden, the rivers molten. Rooks winged homeward, distantly cawing, across chilly blue that eastward deepened and bore a first trembling star. Ahead loomed the long barricade of Mons Ferruginus, its heights still aglow but the wrinkles beneath purple with dusk.
    He should turn around, raise his arms, and say his own evening prayer. He had not said any since the whelming of Ys. There had been no real chance to.
    He did not halt but, blindly, sought upward. The ruttedroad gave way to a path that muffled foot-thuds. It wound steeply among wild shrubs and trees, occasional small