The Dog and the Wolf by Poul Anderson

misses you so. … One for Hercules. … One for Ulysses. … One for, m-m, my brother. You promised Salomon you’d teach him sword- and shieldcraft when he was big enough, do you remember? … One for Julius Caesar. One for Augustus. One for Tiberius. You don’t have to take one for Caligula, but Claudius was nice, wasn’t he?”
    With a flicker of wish to argue, Gratillonius said, “He conquered Britannia.”
    “He made your people Romans, like mine. Give him his libation, do. Down your throat. Good.” She clapped her hands.
    Feet thudded in the hall. Verania squeaked. She and Gratillonius gaped at the tall gaunt man in the travel-stained rough robe who entered. He strode to the bedside and placed himself arms akimbo, glowering.
    “I hear you’re ill.” His voice was harsher than before, asif he had lately shouted a great deal. “What’s the matter? Rovinda says you have no fever.”
    “You’re back,” Gratillonius said.
    Corentinus’s gray beard waggled to his nod, as violent as that was. “Tell me more, O wise one. I’ve brought men for you. Now get out and use them, for I’ve reached the limit of what I can make those muleheads do.”
    “Sir, he
is
sick,” Verania made bold to plead. “What do you want of him? Can’t father take charge, or, or anybody?”
    The pastor softened at sight of her face. Tears trembled on her lashes. “I fear not, child,” he said. “To begin with, they are pagans, disinclined to heed me.”
    “From Ys—from what was Ys?”
    He nodded. “We must start at once preparing a place for the survivors. The first few score have lodging here, but not for long; soon the traders will be coming, and Aquilo needs them too much to deny them their usual quarters. Besides, it could never take in all who are left in the countryside. They’ll require shelter, defenses—homes. Your father has most Christianly granted a good-sized site, his farmland. Oh, you knew already? Well, first we should make a ditch and wall: for evildoers will hear of the disaster and come seeking to take advantage. I went back after able-bodied men. On the way, I thought they’d better include some who know how to fight.”
    He and Apuleius decided this, and he walked off … without me, Gratillonius thought. Inwardly he cringed. Aloud: “Who did you find?”
    “I remembered that squad of marines at the Nymphaeum,” Corentinus answered. “They refused to leave unless the women came too. They think it’s their sacred duty to guard the women of the Temple. Well, that’s manly of them. But I had a rocky time persuading the priestess in charge, that Runa, persuading her to leave immediately. At last she agreed. By then such a span had passed that I thought best we go straightaway. The marines could begin on the fortifications while I went after additional labor. But they will not. I stormed and swore, but couldn’t shake them.”
    “Why?” wondered Gratillonius.
    “In part their leader claims they must stay with their charges. I have to admit Runa’s trying to convince them she and the others will be safe in Aquilo. But also, they say it’s demeaning work. Furthermore, they don’t know how to do it. Ha!”
    Gratillonius tugged his beard. “There’s truth in that,” he said slowly. “It’s more than just digging. Cutting turfs and laying them to make a firm wall is an art.” After a moment: “An art never known in Ys because it was never needed, and pretty much lost in Gallia. I think we in the Britannia were the last of the real old legionaries. On the Continent they’ve become cadres at best—the best not worth much—for peasant reserves and barbarian mercenaries.”
    The eagles of Rome fly no more. All at once the thought was not insignificant like everything mortal, nor saddening or frightening. It infuriated him.
    “So stop malingering,” Corentinus snapped. “Go show them.”
    “Oh!” wailed Verania, shocked and indignant.
    “By Hercules, I will.” Gratillonius swung himself out