The Dog and the Wolf by Poul Anderson Page A

of the blankets onto the floor. He had forgotten his nakedness. Verania smothered a gasp and fled. His blunder lashed yet more life into him. He had to make it good. Flinging on tunic, hastily binding sandals, he stalked from the room, Corentinus at his heels.
    Given directions, he found the party outside of town, at the western end of the bridge across the Odita. He must push through a crowd of curious local folk. They kept well aside, though, and he glimpsed some making furtive signs against witchcraft.
    It was a clear afternoon. He felt a faint amazement at how bright the sunlight was. A blustery wind chased small clouds; a flight of storks passed overhead, as white as they. Light burned along the greenness that had bestormed fields and forest. The wind was sharp, with a taste of newly turned earth in it. Women’s dresses, men’s cloaks, stray locks of hair fluttered.
    The vestals shared none of the wind’s vigor. Their trip had been cruel to soft feet, though they took turns on the four horses and had overnighted in a charcoal burner’shut. They clutched their garments and stared with eyes full of fright—and Nemeta’s an underlying defiance. Korai clung to Julia’s hand like an infant. Runa did seem undaunted. Her lips were pressed thin in anger. She hailed Gratillonius coldly.
    The dozen marines stood together, Amreth at their head. They bore the full gear of their corps: peaked helmets, flared shoulderpieces and greaves, loricated cuirasses engraved with abstract motifs, cloth blue or gray like the sea, laurel-leaf swords, hooked pikes. Gratillonius felt relief at seeing the metal was polished; but the outfits made them glaringly alien here.
    He approached the leader and halted. Amreth gave him salute. He responded as was fitting among Ysans. “Greeting,” he said in their tongue, “and welcome to your new home.”
    “We thank you, lord,” Amreth answered with care.
    “’Twill take work ere ’tis fit for the settling of our folk. What’s this I hear about your refusing duty?”
    Amreth braced himself. “Lord, I am of Suffete family. Most of us are. Pick-and-shovel work is for commoners.”
    “’Twas good enough for Rome’s legionaries when Caesar met Brennilis. Sailors born to Suffetes toil side by side with their low-born shipmates. Do you fear you lack the strength?”
    Amreth reddened beneath his sunburn. “Nay, lord. We lack skill. Why not bring men off the farms?”
    “They’re plowing and sowing, lest everyone go hungry later. Twill be a lean year, with so many mouths. Be thankful Aquilo will share till we can take care of ourselves.”
    “Well, countryfolk who were your subjects are still back in the homeland. Fetch them, lord. Our duty is to these holy maidens.”
    “Aye. To make a proper place for them, not stand idle when they’ve ample protection waiting behind yonder rampart.”
    Amreth frowned. Gratillonius drew breath. “They who remain of Ys
are
my subjects,” he said levelly. “I am the King. I broke the Scoti, I broke the Franks, and I slew every challenger who sought me in the Wood. If the Gods of Ys have forsaken my people, I have not. I will show youwhat to do and teach you how and cut the first turfs with these hands that have wielded my sword.” He raised his voice. “Attention! Follow me.”
    For an instant he thought he had lost. Then Amreth said, “Aye, King,” and beckoned to his men. They fell in behind Gratillonius.
    “I will take them to the site, and barrack them later,” he told Runa. “Let Corentinus lead you and the vestals to your quarters now, my lady.”
    She nodded. He marched off with the marines, over the bridge, through the town, out the east gate, northward along the river to the confluence. As yet he must compel himself, hold a shield up to hide the vacantness within; but already he felt it filling and knew he would become a man again. If nothing else, he had a man’s work ahead of him.
    It was odd how he kept thinking of Runa. Her look upon