the cares of the world. They’d climb back onto him soon enough. “Not our department,” he said. “How about we find us a place where we can have a drink and swap brags?”
3
Four days later he was in the presence of Maximus Augustus, but as a prisoner.
News had exploded through the city. The Emperor, who had promised clemency for the Priscillianists, was rehearing the entire case. Bishop Ithacius withdrew as prosecutor. It was said that he feared the wrath of such powerful colleagues as Martinus and Ambrosius.
Earlier, the bishop of Mediolanum had come back this far north, ostensibly to see the bones of Gratianus returned to Italy for burial, actually to attend the first trial. Maximus refused him a private audience but received him in consistory, where he in his turn declined the Emperor’s proffered kiss of peace and accused the latter of being a lawless usurper. Maximus responded in the course of proceedings with a denial that Valentinianus was his equal; if nothing else, the boy-Emperor and his mother were known to have strong Arian leanings.
Though Ambrosius had since gone home, the qualms of Ithacius were natural. In his place, Maximus appointed Patricius, an advocate for the treasury. Did the Augustus want the property of the heretics?
Gratillonius found a military tribune who was a reliable conduit of information, rather than rumors. What he learned about the goings-on within the Church perturbed him less than what he learned about Maximus. How long must he hang around this cursed city? Most of his time he spent sightseeing, or talking with chance-met men. They were a varied lot, many of them trading up and down the rivers or overland. There grew before him a vision, clearer than ever, of the Empire, how vast it was and how troubled.
The detachment came for him toward evening, when he had lately returned to the hostel after a day’s ride in the hinterland. A vintner had hailed him and invited him home for a cup and a gab; there the pretty daughter of the house smiled upon him. Now he sat in the common room prior to supper, more content than he had been, thinking back over the small experience. The door opened. Four soldiers in combat gear tramped through, and at their head a centurion.
“We seek Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, of the Second Legion Augusta,” that man announced.
“Here he is.” Gratillonius’s heart leaped up as fast as his body.
“In the name of the Augustus, come.”
“At once. I’ll just outfit myself—”
“No. Immediately.”
Gratillonius stared into faces gone hard. A prickling went over his scalp. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
The centurion clapped hand to sword. “Silence! Come!”
Household staff gaped, shrank aside, and saw their guest depart surrounded by armed men. Folk outside likewise fell silent as the group strode down the streets to the basilica.
Guarded gates led to a cloistered courtyard where dusk was rising: for the sun had gone below the outer walls. Light still glowed on the upper courses of brick and red sandstone that made up the great building within, and flared off glass in its windows. Numb, Gratillonius accompanied his escort into this citadel of his hopes, past several checkpoints and thus at last to the audience hall where the Emperor was.
The soldiers clanked to a halt and saluted. Gratillonius did too. That was his old commandant there on the throne, the same Hispanic hatchet features and lean body though purple be wrapped around and a golden wreath set above. He hardly noticed the splendor of the room or the several councillors who sat or stood beneath their master.
The officer waited for the Imperial nod before reporting that he brought the person required. “Ah, Gratillonius,” Maximus said low. “Step forward. Let us look at you.”
The King of Ys posed for what seemed a long while, until he heard: “Know that we have been told such evil of you that we have ordered your arrest. What have you to say for
3
Four days later he was in the presence of Maximus Augustus, but as a prisoner.
News had exploded through the city. The Emperor, who had promised clemency for the Priscillianists, was rehearing the entire case. Bishop Ithacius withdrew as prosecutor. It was said that he feared the wrath of such powerful colleagues as Martinus and Ambrosius.
Earlier, the bishop of Mediolanum had come back this far north, ostensibly to see the bones of Gratianus returned to Italy for burial, actually to attend the first trial. Maximus refused him a private audience but received him in consistory, where he in his turn declined the Emperor’s proffered kiss of peace and accused the latter of being a lawless usurper. Maximus responded in the course of proceedings with a denial that Valentinianus was his equal; if nothing else, the boy-Emperor and his mother were known to have strong Arian leanings.
Though Ambrosius had since gone home, the qualms of Ithacius were natural. In his place, Maximus appointed Patricius, an advocate for the treasury. Did the Augustus want the property of the heretics?
Gratillonius found a military tribune who was a reliable conduit of information, rather than rumors. What he learned about the goings-on within the Church perturbed him less than what he learned about Maximus. How long must he hang around this cursed city? Most of his time he spent sightseeing, or talking with chance-met men. They were a varied lot, many of them trading up and down the rivers or overland. There grew before him a vision, clearer than ever, of the Empire, how vast it was and how troubled.
The detachment came for him toward evening, when he had lately returned to the hostel after a day’s ride in the hinterland. A vintner had hailed him and invited him home for a cup and a gab; there the pretty daughter of the house smiled upon him. Now he sat in the common room prior to supper, more content than he had been, thinking back over the small experience. The door opened. Four soldiers in combat gear tramped through, and at their head a centurion.
“We seek Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, of the Second Legion Augusta,” that man announced.
“Here he is.” Gratillonius’s heart leaped up as fast as his body.
“In the name of the Augustus, come.”
“At once. I’ll just outfit myself—”
“No. Immediately.”
Gratillonius stared into faces gone hard. A prickling went over his scalp. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
The centurion clapped hand to sword. “Silence! Come!”
Household staff gaped, shrank aside, and saw their guest depart surrounded by armed men. Folk outside likewise fell silent as the group strode down the streets to the basilica.
Guarded gates led to a cloistered courtyard where dusk was rising: for the sun had gone below the outer walls. Light still glowed on the upper courses of brick and red sandstone that made up the great building within, and flared off glass in its windows. Numb, Gratillonius accompanied his escort into this citadel of his hopes, past several checkpoints and thus at last to the audience hall where the Emperor was.
The soldiers clanked to a halt and saluted. Gratillonius did too. That was his old commandant there on the throne, the same Hispanic hatchet features and lean body though purple be wrapped around and a golden wreath set above. He hardly noticed the splendor of the room or the several councillors who sat or stood beneath their master.
The officer waited for the Imperial nod before reporting that he brought the person required. “Ah, Gratillonius,” Maximus said low. “Step forward. Let us look at you.”
The King of Ys posed for what seemed a long while, until he heard: “Know that we have been told such evil of you that we have ordered your arrest. What have you to say for
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