an extra defiance of the law that said they must remain in that station to which they were born—
Gratillonius had seen Londinium, but it could not compare with this. Abruptly Ys seemed tiny and very dear. He got directions and led his soldiers in formation, giving way to nobody. Before their armor the crowds surged aside in bow waves and eddies.
Space was available at the metropolitan barracks. Maximus kept a large household troop and a substantial standing army. Their cores were legionary regulars, drawn from border garrisons as well as from Brittania. However, more men, auxiliaries among them, had departed for the South with Valentinianus. Thus total Roman strength in Gallia was much reduced. Echoing rooms and empty parade grounds, in the midst of civilian wealth and bustle, roused forebodings in Gratillonius. The Mosella had only about a hundred miles to flow from here before it met the Rhenus, and east of that great river laired the barbarians. Many were already west of it.
He made arrangements for his men. Several whooped joyously when they recognized acquaintances from Britannia, and everybody was chafing to be off into town. “Keeping them taut won’t be easy,” Gratillonius warned Adminius. “Temptations right and left, starting with booze and broads, leading on toward brawls.”
The deputy grinned. “Don’t you worry, sir,” he answered. “Ill let ’em ’ave their fun, but they’ll know there’s a ’and on the tether.” He cocked his head. “If I’m not being overbold, maybe the centurion’d like ’is own bit o’ fun? I’ll soon find out where that’s to be ’ad.”
“Never mind,” Gratillonius snapped. “Remember, I want you reporting to me regularly at my lodging.”
He proceeded alone to the government inn where he would stay. Temptation—aye, he thought, it simmered in him too; and he realized he had been thinking in Ysan, while certain of his wives stood before him, unclad and reaching out, more vivid than the walls and traffic around.
The room he took was clean and well furnished, if a little time-faded. He unpacked and got busy. First he must notify the palace of his arrival. He had already prepared a note to that effect—writing never came easily to him—and now tied it together with a commendation that Bishop Arator had given him. The letter was embarrassingly fulsome, but explained his not coming sooner and, well, should do his career no harm. Escape from the curial trap—
After he was finished in Ys, if ever he was—
He didn’t want to pursue that vision. Hastily, he sought the manager of the house, who dispatched a messenger boy for him.
As Gratillonius then stood wondering what to do, a uniformed centurion entered from the street, stopped, gaped, and shouted his name. “Drusus!” he roared back at the stocky form—Publius Flavius Drusus of the Sixth, whose unit had side by side with his fought its way out of a Pictic ambush. They fell into each other’s arms, pounded each other’s backs, and exchanged mighty oaths.
“I’m staying here too,” Drusus explained, “waiting to deliver a report. Since we won his throne for the Augustus, my vexillation’s been stationed at Bonna. Reinforcement for the Fifth Minervia. The war whittled that legion pretty badly, not so much through casualties as because most of it stuck with Valentinianus. The Germani got so uppity that at last we made a punitive expedition. I’ve been sent to tell how that went; pretty good. Come, we’ve daylight left, let’s go out on the town.”
“I’m supposed to report, like you,” Gratillonius demurred. “I’d better be here when they call me.”
Laughter rattled from Drusus. “Your heels will freeze if you just sit waiting, old buddy. I thought today I’d finally gotten my summons, but no, they told me there the Emperor was suddenly too busy again. You’ll be lucky if you’re called inside this month. And if the word happens to come when you’re out, no sweat.
Gratillonius had seen Londinium, but it could not compare with this. Abruptly Ys seemed tiny and very dear. He got directions and led his soldiers in formation, giving way to nobody. Before their armor the crowds surged aside in bow waves and eddies.
Space was available at the metropolitan barracks. Maximus kept a large household troop and a substantial standing army. Their cores were legionary regulars, drawn from border garrisons as well as from Brittania. However, more men, auxiliaries among them, had departed for the South with Valentinianus. Thus total Roman strength in Gallia was much reduced. Echoing rooms and empty parade grounds, in the midst of civilian wealth and bustle, roused forebodings in Gratillonius. The Mosella had only about a hundred miles to flow from here before it met the Rhenus, and east of that great river laired the barbarians. Many were already west of it.
He made arrangements for his men. Several whooped joyously when they recognized acquaintances from Britannia, and everybody was chafing to be off into town. “Keeping them taut won’t be easy,” Gratillonius warned Adminius. “Temptations right and left, starting with booze and broads, leading on toward brawls.”
The deputy grinned. “Don’t you worry, sir,” he answered. “Ill let ’em ’ave their fun, but they’ll know there’s a ’and on the tether.” He cocked his head. “If I’m not being overbold, maybe the centurion’d like ’is own bit o’ fun? I’ll soon find out where that’s to be ’ad.”
“Never mind,” Gratillonius snapped. “Remember, I want you reporting to me regularly at my lodging.”
He proceeded alone to the government inn where he would stay. Temptation—aye, he thought, it simmered in him too; and he realized he had been thinking in Ysan, while certain of his wives stood before him, unclad and reaching out, more vivid than the walls and traffic around.
The room he took was clean and well furnished, if a little time-faded. He unpacked and got busy. First he must notify the palace of his arrival. He had already prepared a note to that effect—writing never came easily to him—and now tied it together with a commendation that Bishop Arator had given him. The letter was embarrassingly fulsome, but explained his not coming sooner and, well, should do his career no harm. Escape from the curial trap—
After he was finished in Ys, if ever he was—
He didn’t want to pursue that vision. Hastily, he sought the manager of the house, who dispatched a messenger boy for him.
As Gratillonius then stood wondering what to do, a uniformed centurion entered from the street, stopped, gaped, and shouted his name. “Drusus!” he roared back at the stocky form—Publius Flavius Drusus of the Sixth, whose unit had side by side with his fought its way out of a Pictic ambush. They fell into each other’s arms, pounded each other’s backs, and exchanged mighty oaths.
“I’m staying here too,” Drusus explained, “waiting to deliver a report. Since we won his throne for the Augustus, my vexillation’s been stationed at Bonna. Reinforcement for the Fifth Minervia. The war whittled that legion pretty badly, not so much through casualties as because most of it stuck with Valentinianus. The Germani got so uppity that at last we made a punitive expedition. I’ve been sent to tell how that went; pretty good. Come, we’ve daylight left, let’s go out on the town.”
“I’m supposed to report, like you,” Gratillonius demurred. “I’d better be here when they call me.”
Laughter rattled from Drusus. “Your heels will freeze if you just sit waiting, old buddy. I thought today I’d finally gotten my summons, but no, they told me there the Emperor was suddenly too busy again. You’ll be lucky if you’re called inside this month. And if the word happens to come when you’re out, no sweat.
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