Roma Mater by Poul Anderson Page B

paces to the larger Celtic measure. Gratillonius didn’t know just when or why that had happened. But he did know that the Gallic provinces, together with the Rhenus valley, had been the richest, most populous and productive territories in the Empire. What they wanted, they could likely get – including a new Emperor?
    Certainly this land clung unhindered to its own old ways. Cynan had been right; Christianity was a religionfor towns. Frequently Gratillonius spied a cella, a Celtic temple. Even smaller than a Mithraeum, it consisted of a single square room surrounded by a porch. Public rites took place in the temenos outside; the chamber could barely hold one or two persons who had some special need of their Gods.
    Now and then the legionaries passed a hill fort, earthworks raised on a height before ever Caesar arrived. Most were deserted, their outlines time-blurred, but Gratillonius observed that some had lately been refurbished, refuges against the failure of everything Roman.
    Spring rolled northwards apace. Trees leafed, hawthorn hedges bloomed white, wildflowers bejewelled meadows gone intensely green, larks jubilated aloft. Where fields lay under cultivation, the first fine shoots thrust out of furrows and orchards were riotous with blossom. Views became splendid from the ridges, down over dappled valleys where rivers gleamed and clanged in spate. Rain turned into scattered showers after which rainbows bridged the clouds. Most days were clear, warm, full of sweetness. They grew swiftly longer too, which made for better time on the road, although Gratillonius liked the gentle nights and would sometimes stroll from camp to be alone with the stars.
    Speech changed across the country, shifting from dialect to dialect until you could say that Caletes and Osismii spoke distinct languages. However, he could always make himself understood, whether or not anybody knew Latin – which many farmers, who never went more than a few miles from their birthplaces, did not. Barely enough commerce still trickled along that he could obtain information about conditions ahead. Thus advised, he twice took shortcuts over local roads that were adequate. The gravel on them was washing away and not being replaced, but in dry weather they still served.
    That neglect was a sign of much else. The farther west the men came, the more desolation they saw. At first it was not unlike parts of Britannia, vacant huts, acres gone back to weeds, squalid serf shacks well away from the mansions of the honestiores, towns listless and half empty. The larger towns had garrisons, which saw to such things as the maintenance of bridges, but these were auxiliaries from as far away as Egypt, foreign alike to Roman and Celt, generally sloppy. Or, worse, the troops were laeti, Germanic or Alanic barbarians who had forced their way into the province and carved out settlements for themselves: men surly, shaggy, fierce, and filthy, on guard more for the sake of their own kin than for the Empire to which they gave nominal allegiance.
    Thirty years had passed since Magnentius failed in his try for the throne. The ruin left by the war was not yet repaired, nor did it seem likely ever to be. Why? wondered Gratillonius. Nature was no less generous here than erstwhile: rich soil, timber, minerals, navigable rivers, fructifying sunshine and rain. The Gauls were an able race, to whom Rome had brought peace, civilization, an opening on the rest of the world. Her armies and navies easily kept prosperity unplundered by outsiders. In return she asked for little other than loyalty, obedience to laws that were more tribal than Roman, a modest tribute so the engineers and soldiers could be paid. Gauls grew wealthy, not only from agriculture and mining but from manufacturing. Art and learning waxed brilliant in their cities. Gallia became the heartland of the Empire. Why could she not now recover? What had gone wrong?
    Gratillonius didn’t ask his questions aloud. The men were already