"GaUiusV

When Ambrosius and his praefect reached them, they were still sitting by their own dead. Malgon had frugally salvaged the scale armor from Gallius, who would no longer need it. They ignored the stunned tribune, keening with that indescribable teeth-on-edge sound. Only Padrec stood apart, a ruin in sunlight.

Ambrosius finally found his tongue. "Patricius, what. . . ? Oh, shut them up. Make them be still, you hear me? Patricius . . . ?"

But the priest's voice rose with the others. His eyes were quite mad.

AMBROSIUS AURELIANUS at Churnet Head, to CAIUS MEGANIUS, bishop of Eburacum—

Your grace, I enclose the last letter of Father Patricius, written when I relieved him of duty along with the remnant of his command. I transmit his letter with the seals unbroken. Since Patricius killed his superior officer, I had no choice but to put him and the others in irons.

Your grace, many things happen on a battlefield that will never be just or even clear to reason. This is to inform you that, as legatus pro tern of VI Legio, I will not oppose Church immunity in this case. For the time, I had to condemn him even as he was put aboard the invalid train bound for Wye.

Meganius mourned over the laconic enclosure from his priest that might have been posted from a suburb of hell. He learned indirectly of the outcome through field dispatches to Marchudd. It was plain that Rhiwallon's need for immediate vengeance overbalanced his judgment.

AMBROSIUS AURELIANUS at Churnet Head, to MARCHUDD RHYS, princeps Parisil et Bri-gantes—

My lord, today the wagon train of wounded bound north for Wye was ambushed and taken by Cori-tani raiders. Naturally we are in pursuit. I will not allow this insult to yourself or VI Legio, but we must assume that all the wounded are dead. Since Father Patricius was among them, I trust my prince will speed my condolences, et cetera, to his grace.

Et cetera. So easily ellided. There's an agile conscience, Meganius noted acerbically. Of course he would have claimed Church immunity for Patricius, moved all of Britain and Auxerre had there been time.

Most like Ambrosius would never think to number rape among his virulent sins.

The Coritani moved from wagon to wagon, finishing off the tallfolk wounded. The Prydn were reserved from the ordinary slaughter. Eight of them were put on the wagon, three died before the blue-painted men rode down on them. Near their tree, the two dying boys from Reindeer fhain lay where their captors dumped them. The great dark-browed Rhiwallon had a special interest in Prydn. It seemed superfluous: two dying, Padrec cloudy in his wits, Drust like to die if his shoulder was not tended.

They were going to die: not meaningless to Drust and Malgon, but not the whole of their concern. Before they came to Christ, they were children of earth. All things went back to Mother. But Padrec had left them; not the body but the soul of the man they knew. He lay like a sack against the tree, chained as they were. When they tried to give him water, most of it dribbled down his lips into the overgrown beard. His eyes moved now and then. They wondered if Padrec knew what was happening. Going to happen.

"Dost pain, brother?" Malgon asked gently of Drust.

"A feels hot."

Festering. The poison would reach Drust's heart if the wound weren't treated. Malgon would not speak of that, but happier things. "Lambs will be fat in new pasture now. When Finch sings, where will a rade, thee think?"

"North among Atecotti. Grass be good this year."

"And Guenloie will carry wealth a-sling through winter, but will a nae be walking afore Bel-tein?"

"For sure."

"Braw bairn," Malgon remembered softly. "And wife. Guenloie could be dumb as sheep sometimes. ..."

"But such a woman." Drust shifted slightly to ease his shoulder. "Most beautiful. A song."

"All of that. A picture."

"Malgon?"

4 'Aye, little brother?"

"Have thought much on't. Do think bairn be thine."

"Och." Malgon just shrugged. "Who thinks of such things?"

"I do. Now," Drust said in a voice so still, more than one meaning could be heard in it, "dost favor thee."

"More like my brother."

"Speak so? Does Bruidda have my beauty? Nae. And while thy hand has the power to mark the earth with beauty, thy face has none, nor bairn's. Be thine."

Who takes gifts from any god without something in return? Before Jesu brought the iron-magic, was Drust not the one most jealous of Guenloie, most urgent to lie with her, while Malgon took only his reasonable share of her heart, happy enough with his pictures in earth and stone? Then Padrec came and called Drust's heart away from small desire to a greater one.

"Thee did bed Guenloie more than me last year. Be all from one well." Drust winced at the ache throbbing in his shoulder. "Knothead, wealth be thine."

"Fool."

"Nae. I must father a different life. As in the baiting pit."

They watched impassively as the bodies were hauled from the wagons already buzzing with flies. Their Cor-itani guard, naked except for tattoos and ragged breeches, leaned on his spear and leered at them. "Don't worry, small ones. They'll be coming for you. You are the sweetmeats to follow the feast."

The guard deflated somewhat when his taunting evoked no response in the three of them, but then one had wandering wits, and the others were not really human.

"Thee has more Briton-speech, Malgon. What says the great blue Coritani?"

"Do nae know, Padrec . .. Padrec?"

The shaggy head turned to Malgon, looked for him with difficulty through a welter of images. Brown eyes: Malgon always found that strange in a man with such

coloring; then later one saw the warmth it gave Padrec. The eyes were sunken now, the color of trodden dirt.

Malgon gave it up. "Be sick inside. Would nae think one small death would take him so."

"Gallius tallfolk?" Drust snorted feebly. "Smallest of all."

"Did much want to do it myself," Malgon admitted seriously. ' This very hand lifting the spear, and Padrec took't from me."

"Like Jesu the sins of the world."

"Poor Padrec."

"God left him: all a said to me, Malgon. God left him. Could such be?"

"Oh, Drust. I don't know. Be not much God in me this day."

Then truly, Drust knew, / hold the magic of Jesu and Father-God among Prydn until it return to Padrec. I do not know why I was the first to feel the magic in me, to know Padrec's faith for truth, but I must give it back to him before I die. Jesu, 1 will not deny you now at the end, but you must forgive Padrec when he's fevered a-mind. Come into me now and into Padrec as you were with Dorelei when she tamed the iron. As you were with Daniel and me in the baiting pit. I will miss Guenloie and the bairn, but it is not a foolish sacrifice, Jesu, nor do I act from heart more than head. We have become frugal of death in this place of so many. Only give me the power of heart that Padrec will see and believe again. Come back to him.

Cold in the sunlight as on the chill nights in Ireland before the Spirit of God filled him. No, not God. Never. Satan took him to a high hill and showed him the prizes of the earth, among them a fatuous belief that he knew of and lived in Grace. Only a man and a poor one, no priest at all, but no longer blind. Following in Ger-manus' footsteps, deluded as he, adored by Dorelei and other innocents, puffed with a little success, he flattered himself that he was touched by God.

The ultimate vanity: that Jericho would tumble before

God's voice speaking in his own. He was much clearer-sighted now, thank you. Not God's war but a private comedy of conceit with himself the leading player. He even saw it sometimes in himself and Dorelei. Blind faith and success gave them the illusion of infallibility. Blind faith fed that illusion while it cried for more and more. Look you, he was more than man; he was Raven in the flesh, sent by Lugh as Jesu was sent. Subtlest of all sins, doing Satan's will in Christ's name.

The play was ended, the bodies carried off to funeral strains. An entire generation of young Prydn men. From somewhere in the high seats, there spattered gratified applause. Make an end, actor.

Killing him would be redundant, but make an end.

Christ Savior—

Never heard of him.

Yeshua. His father did carpentry, and I believe his uncle dealt in tin.

Oh. Him.

What's this? Doubt from the immaculate soul of Suc-catus Patricius?

Shut up. Where was I? Dragged Bredei over to one side ... we were all hurt. Ambrosius let me write a letter. No, that was later. I carried Bredei, and he told me, before the brains leaked out of his skull, that Gallius had to die.

I agree.

Would have forgotten, you know how those things are, but Gallius came himself to remind me. So there it was. I did it.

And very efficiently, too. Went through the armor like hot grease, through the Parisi hide of him, whatever courage he found, all that small man's prejudice, the food he stole from your men—then out again, layer after layer of whatever life he called his own. Thee's a good arm, Padrec.

Poor Gallius.

So why are you laughing?

It's funny. Comic. He was so surprised. Did you see

the look on his face when he went down? Like he'd lost something, or it was all a ghastly mistake.

Which would be righted, of course, as soon as VI Legio's notitia caught up with facts. Yes. Just so.

Isn't it strange how poets and priests try to make meaning, even drama, out of such banal muck? Must've been this dreary at Troy and Carthage.

His last act in life was to foul himself. Not so unusual. Take the female roach: pregnant, the egg sack so big she can barely stagger along with it. When you hit her with the swatter, she writhes back and forth, trying to leave the sack of eggs in life before she goes. Leave something. The same with men. They twist this way and that to leave something of themselves. Gallius left shit for a signature. The dead don't look peaceful, do they?