Free The Dog and the Wolf by Poul Anderson Page B

remember. Six, seven, eight? It made no difference.
    The woman gathered courage. “You must not continue like this.”
    “I am … worn out.”
    Her tone sharpened. “You fought your way out of the flood, and afterward exhausted what strength you had left for the sake of what people had survived. True. But that soldier’s body of yours should have recovered in a day or two. Gratillonius, they still need you. We all do.”
    He stared up at her. Though no longer young, she was sightly: tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed, fine-featured, born to a well-off Osismiic family with ancient Roman connections. He recalled vaguely that she was even more quiet and mild than her husband, but even more apt to get herway in the end. He sighed. “I would if I could, Rovinda. Leave me in peace.”
    “It’s no longer weariness that weighs you down. It’s sorrow.”
    “No doubt. Leave me alone with it.”
    “Others have suffered bereavement before you. It is the lot of mortals.” She said nothing about the children she had lost, year after year.
    Two lived. Well, he thought, two of his did, Nemeta and Julia, together with little Korai, granddaughter of Bodilis. But the rest were gone. Dahut was gone, Dahilis’s daughter, swept from him with foundering Ys, off into Ocean. Would her bones find her mothers down there?
    “You should be man enough to carry on,” Rovinda said. “Call on Christ. He will help you.”
    Gratillonius turned his face to the wall.
    Rovinda hesitated before she bent above him and whispered, “Or call on what God or Gods you will. Your Mithras you’ve been so faithful to? Sometimes I—please keep this secret; it would hurt Apuleius too much—I am a Christian, of course, but sometimes in hours of grief I’ve stolen away and opened my heart to one of the old Goddesses. Shall I tell you about Her? She’s small and kindly.”
    Gratillonius shook his head on the pillow.
    Rovinda straightened. “I’ll go, since you want me to. But I’ll send in a bowl of soup, at least. Promise me you’ll take that much.”
    He kept silent. She went out.
    Gratillonius looked back toward the ceiling. Sluggishly, he wondered what did ail him. He should indeed have been up and about. The ache had drained from muscles and marrow. But what remained was utter slackness. It was as if a sorcerer had turned him to lead, no, to a sack of meal. Where worms crawled. Most of his hours went in drowsing—never honest sleep, or so it seemed.
    Well, why not? What else? The world was formless, colorless, empty of meaning. All Gods were gone from it. He wondered if They had ever cared, or ever existed. The question was as vain as any other. He felt an obscure restlessness, and supposed that in time it would force himto start doing things. They had better be dullard’s tasks, though; he was fit for nothing more.
    —Brightness roused him. He blinked at the slim form that rustled in carrying a bowl. Savory odors drifted out of it. “Here is your soup, Uncle Gaius,” Verania greeted. “M-m-mother said I could bring it to you.”
    “I’m not hungry,” he mumbled.
    “Oh, please.’ The girl set it down on a small table which she drew to the bedside. She dared a smile. “Make us happy. Old Namma—the cook, you know—worked extra hard on it. She adores you.”
    Gratillonius decided it was easiest to oblige. He sat up. Verania beamed. “Ah, wonderful! Do you want me to feed it to you?”
    That stung. He threw her a glare but encountered only innocence. “I’m not crippled,” he growled, and reached for the spoon. After a few mouthfuls he put it back.
    “Now you can eat more than that,” she coaxed. “Just a little more. One for Namma. She does have good taste, doesn’t she? In men, I mean—Oh!” She brought hand to lips. By the sunlight reflected off a corridor wall he saw her blush fiery.
    Somehow that made him obey. And that encouraged her. She grew almost merry. “Fine. Take another for … for your horse Favonius. Poor dear, he