Read Online Roma Mater by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online Page B

collected their gear and tramped down the gangplank under the stares of the crew. Gratillonius had them wait in formation while the horses were unloaded, a process which called forth words that sizzled. In the meantime he queried the harbourmaster, who had come from his office to watch this unseasonal landing, about accommodations for the squadron. To his relief, he learned that most of the garrison were away on joint manoeuvres with those of two other towns. Their barracks would thus have plenty of available beds.
    Marching his men there, he found the prefect of the cohort that had stayed on guard and presented his written orders. They declared that he was on a mission of state, as directed by the Duke of the Britains, with rights to food, lodging, and whatever else his band required along the way. The prefect refrained from asking questions. These days there were many curious comings and goings. His only inquiry was: ‘Do you require a room for yourself?’
    Gratillonius shook his head. ‘I think I’ll put up at a hostel, and return about sunrise to take your guests off your hands.’
    The prefect chuckled wryly. ‘You may as well be comfortable.’
    Gratillonius made somewhat of a nuisance of himself, seeing to it that his men would have decent quarters and, though it was well past the regular hour, an adequate meal. Not until they were seated in the mess – complainingabout food meant for auxiliaries from some forsaken far corner of the Empire – did he leave. It was quite dark then, but the prefect assigned him a guide with a lantern. The wind had chased most clouds away before lying down to rest, letting stars and a partial moon add their light. Air was cold, breath smoked and footfalls rattled, but a breath of spring softened it and leaf buds were pale upon trees.
    The inn for official travellers was a two-storey building, its tile roof rime-whitened. A stable and a shed flanked the courtyard in front. It stood outside the city, on a highway leading south. Beyond that pavement reached cropland, out of which remnants of two houses poked ghostly. Like many other Gallic cities, Gesoriacum had shrunk during the past several generations, cramping itself within its defences. Walls, towers, battlements gloomed under Draco and the Milky Way.
    Passing by the stable, Gratillonius heard a noise that brought him to a halt. ‘What on earth?’ He listened closer. Someone behind the door was weeping – no, more than a single one. The sounds were thin. His skin crawled. He did not think he had ever before heard such hopelessness.
    The door was merely latched. He opened it. Murk yawned at him. The sobbing broke off in wails of terror. ‘Come along,’ he ordered his escort. ‘Be careful about any hay or straw, of course.’
    ‘Don’t hurt us!’ cried a child’s voice. ‘Please don’t hurt us! We’ll be good, honest we will!’
    He followed the words without difficulty. This was Belgica, whence the forebears of his own tribe had come to Britannia, and language hadn’t changed much on either side. Fair-skinned and flaxen-haired, the children might have been playmates of his boyhood.
    They numbered five, three boys and two girls, theirages seeming about nine or ten. They were dirty and unkempt, but not too poorly clad; two of them sported brightly coloured wool scarves that their mothers must have given them at the farewell. Some horses in the building kept it warm. But it had been altogether dark here, and the children were penned in a stall. Slats nailed around and over it confined them, and made it impossible for them to stand upright.
    Lanternlight glistened off tears on cheeks and, elsewhere, caused shadows to dance monstrous. Gratillonius hunkered down. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, as gently as the tightness in his throat allowed. ‘I won’t hurt you. I’m your friend. What can I do for you?’
    A girl’s skinny arms reached out between the bars. He took her hands in his. ‘Oh, please,’ she stammered,