Roma Mater by Poul Anderson Page A

men who, Christian or Mithraist, would not feel uneasy about there being no observance on the Sundays that both religions made their sabbaths. Budic he hadn’t known so well, the lad being newly enlisted, an orphaned rustic; but Budic had fought like a wildcat beyond the Wall, been a good if perhaps overly earnest trailmate on the way home, and would have been crushed if his leader had passed him over for this expedition. Young, strong in spite of his gangly build, he should get along, no matter his curious practice. Maybe he was so fervent because Christians were scarce where he came from, and other children had jeered at him. Maybe he enlisted partly in hopes of finding friends.
    ‘You may, if it’s that important to you,’ Gratillonius decided. ‘Just don’t act sanctimonious if nobody else follows your example. Go tell the cook.’
    ‘Oh, sir!’ Adoration blazed forth. Thank you, sir!’
    Presently Gratillonius emerged to find the squadron atease except for sentries and kitchen detail. The campfire crackled, raising savoury fumes out of a pot suspended above. A low sun gilded the earth. Grass was dry enough to sit on, but several men, with goblets in hand, stood clustered before Budic and teased him.
    ‘You mean you didn’t think to get a special dispensation?’ asked Adminius. ‘Why, the bishop was ‘anding ‘em out like ‘otcakes at a love feast. Dibs on yer porkchops.’
    Cynan sneered, which made the mark of his punishment writhe on that cheek. It marred his dark handsomeness, and must still hurt, but should heal soon. Probably he wasn’t quite over his resentment. Those Demetae were inclined to be broody sorts. ‘I suppose somebody among us may as well get in good with Jesus,’ he said, ‘though I hear this countryside is still blessedly free of Him.’ He heard Mass when that seemed expedient, but made no bones about reckoning the faith one for women and soft city dwellers. Himself, he sought the temple of Nodens when he could.
    ‘Can’t stop and dicker with any cleric we might come across.’ Adminius’s thin features split in a gap-toothed grin. ‘Tell you wot, though, Budic. If we do meet one, I’ll ‘elp you grab ‘im up and sling ‘im over a ‘orse, and ‘e can oblige you as we travel.’
    The youth reddened. He doubled his fists. Eppillus’s burly form pushed close. He had sensed trouble brewing. ‘That will do,’ the deputy rumbled. ‘Leave off the jibes. Every man’s got a right to his religion.’
    The tormentors drifted away, a little abashed, to mingle with their comrades. ‘Thank you,’ Budic said unevenly. ‘I, uh, may I ask what your belief is? I’ve never seen you at … our services.’
    Eppillus shrugged. ‘I follow Mithras, same as the centurion and two others amongst us. But I admit that for luck I look more to a thunderstone I carry.’ It was a pieceof flint in the form of a spearhead, found near a dolmen many years ago. He chuckled deep in his hairy breast. ‘Could be that’s why I’ve never made better than second grade in the Mystery. But I’m too old to change my ways, when there’s no wife to badger me out of ‘em.’
    ‘I thought … you would be married.’
    ‘I was. She died. Two kids, both grown and flown the nest. I’ve got my bit of a farm still, back near Isca, and when my hitch is up – couple years to go – I’ll find me a nice plump widow.’ Eppillus grew aware of Gratillonius, who had stood quietly listening. ‘Oh, hail, sir. Budic, don’t stand there like a snow man in a thaw. Go get the centurion his wine.’
    Gratillonius smiled. On the whole, this episode seemed to bode well.
    4
    The land began to rise after they crossed into Gallia Lugdunensis. Roads must curve, climb, swing back down again, around and over hills that were often steep. Nevertheless, the legionaries continued day by day to eat the miles.
    Or the leagues, which were what waystones now measured. Unlike Britannia, Gallia had reverted from Rome’s thousand