Gallicenae by Poul Anderson Page A

care to tell us what you’ve been doing? You must have many curious adventures under your belt.”
    Gratillonius dug in his heels against liking the man, found himself dragged toward it anyhow, and settled down. “I am… on business of state, reporting to the Emperor,” he said.
    “I thought so. And we are bound home after business with him. Maybe we can help each other, you and I.”
    “Sir?”
    “I can give you an idea of what to expect. There’s been trouble at court, a most cruel strife. God willing, it nears its end, but you’ll do best to avoid certain topics. For my part, I’d be very interested to learn more about how things are in Armorica… and Ys.”
    Martinus laughed at Gratillonius’s startlement. “Obvious!” he continued. “In Treverorum I heard incidental mention that Maximus Augustus’s prefect at the mysterious city was coming. Who else would you be, you who identified yourself as belonging to a Britannic legion? Take your ease, have a fresh cup of the excellent local wine, and yarn to us.”
    He and his companions did not join in, sipping merely water, but Gratillonius got from them a sense of cheer, the sort that men feel when they have completed a hard task. He used his own call for more drink to buy time for thought.
    How much dared he relate? He had shaded his dispatches to the Emperor, omitting details of religious and magical practices. He had spent hours on the road rehearsing in his mind how he should reply to various possible questions. He would not give his commandant any falsehood. But if he provoked outrage and cancellation of his commission, what then?
    “Well,” he said, “you must be aware that we’re getting matters under control in our part of the country. We’d like to help with that over a wider range.” The tale of his brush with the Bacaudae and the deliverance of Bishop Arator, augmented by the exclamations and thanksgivings of the monks, took a usefully long while. He went on to remarks about the revival of trade that was beginning, and finished quickly:
    “But it’ll soon be dark, and I want to start off at daybreak. You mentioned things I might need to know. Will you tell me?”
    Martinus frowned. “The full story would take longer than till bedtime, my son.”
    “I’m a simple roadpounder. Can’t you explain enough in a few words?”
    The ghost of a smile crossed Martinus’s lips. “You ask for a miracle. But I’ll try.” He pondered before he started talking.
    Nonetheless Gratillonius was bewildered. He could only gather that one Priscillianus, bishop of Avela in Hispania, was accused of heresy and worse. The centurion knew that “heresy” meant an incorrect Christian doctrine, though it was not clear to him who decided what was correct and how. In a vague fashion he was conscious of the division between Catholics, who held that God and Christ were somehow identical, and Arians, who held that They were somehow different. Mithraism was an easier faith, its paradoxes a part of the very Mystery and in any event nothing that directly concerned mortals.
    This Priscillianus preached a canon of perfectionism which Martinus felt went too far; fallen man was incapable of it without divine grace. Yet Martinus also felt that this was no more than an excess of zeal. Certainly it spoke against those charges of fornication and sorcery that the enemies of Priscillianus brought. There might have been no large stir had not people by the hundreds and perhaps thousands, despairing of this world, flocked to the austere new creed. As was, Bishop Ambrosius of Mediolanum got the then co-Emperor Gratianus to issue a rescript banning its adherents. They scattered and concealed themselves.
    Priscillianus himself and a few followers went to Rome to appeal to the Pope. Among them were women, including two friends of the consul Ausonius. This gave rise to nasty gossip.
    The Church had adopted a rule that when internal disputes arose, the final appeal would be to the bishop of