Lady of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “I have lent out some of the money at a percentage, to be repaid at the beginning of the sailing season, and that will bring us some gain. But it takes money to breed money. Asking for contributions from the magistrates is a good idea”—he gave her that smile that so transformed his features—“but it will take more than sound reasoning to screw gold out of our people. They can be generous when the results will be something they can use to impress their neighbors. To see benefits in fortifications to defend another tribe’s lands strains their imaginations. You must come with me, Teleri, and charm them into generosity! Surely they will not be able to resist your smile….”

  She blushed involuntarily, thinking that, despite his complaints, the Army had been good for him, socially as well as physically. He would never have had the wit to pay her such a compliment a year ago.

  The weather grew warmer, though storms still lashed the land. Carausius shifted his quarters to the fortress itself, and took Teleri with him. The alliance with Prince Eiddin Mynoc and the aura of Avalon were themselves of considerable use, but they were not the major reason he had married Teleri. It was time now to learn if the other, secret purpose in having her with him could be achieved. Teleri took to retiring early—no hardship now, when Carausius needed to spend his evenings with his men. They did not know that she rose in the dark hours before dawn and sat staring into the water in the silver bowl, clearing her mind and waiting for word from Avalon.

  At first she found it hard to concentrate, but presently she began to think of this time apart as the best part of her day. In those quiet hours when the great fortress slept around her she could almost imagine herself back in the House of Maidens. Teleri occupied her mind by reflecting on the things she had learned there, and was surprised to find how much she remembered, and how much her understanding of what she had been taught seemed to have grown.

  On a night near the end of the month of Mars, she found herself thinking of Dierna with regret, rather than with the anger that had so often tinged her thoughts before. And as if that shift in attitude had been like the movement of a stone that releases the water pent behind a dam, she saw the features of the High Priestess forming in the water into which she gazed.

  From the widening of the other woman’s eyes, Teleri could tell that Dierna saw her too, and she felt an unexpected pang as she realized that the other woman was gazing at her with relief and with love. Dierna’s lips moved. Teleri heard nothing, but she sensed a question and smiled reassuringly, then gestured as if she were asking how they fared on Avalon in return. She saw Dierna close her eyes, frowning. Then her image blurred. For a moment Teleri glimpsed Avalon, lying peaceful under the stars. She saw the House of Maidens and the dwelling of the priestesses, the weaving sheds and dye house and kitchens, the shed where they dried and processed herbs. There was the apple orchard, the oak grove, and the glimmer of the holy well, and, watching over all, the pointed silhouette of the Tor.

  Teleri closed her own eyes then, striving to picture the fortress of Dubris and the harbor where the tethered warships rose and fell on the tide. Her thought moved to Carausius, broad-shouldered and intent, with more silver strands in his hair than there had been a year ago. Unbidden, the image of Allectus appeared at his shoulder, eyes alight with excitement. But in the next moment her will, unused to this labor, faltered, and she blinked and saw in the bowl only the dull sheen of the water, and in the window, the pale light of dawn.

  Carausius straightened from looking at the map of the coastline, wincing as the muscles of his back protested. How long, he wondered, had he been bending over it? The map was made of leather so that it could be rolled up and carried, or pegged to a board. Wooden counters representing ships and supplies were set by the pictures of fortresses or towns, easy to count and easy to shift. If only it were so easy to move ships and men. But the vagaries of the weather and the human heart could upset the most logical plans.

  The fortress lay in the stillness of the hours between midnight and dawn, when everyone was asleep but the guards on the walls. And himself and Allectus. The younger man moved three more wooden “bags of grain” from the painted image of Dubris to Rutupiae and glanced at his commander.

  “I think we’ll have enough.” He made a tally mark on his slate. “We won’t get fat, but everyone will be fed.” He tried to suppress a yawn.

  “And everyone must sleep,” said Carausius, surveying him with a smile. “Even you and I. Go to bed, Allectus, and sleep well.”

  “I’m not tired, truly. The other forts—”

  “Can wait until tomorrow. You’ve done more than enough for now.”

  “You’re pleased with my work, then?” Allectus asked. Carausius frowned, wondering why he needed to ask.

  “Last fall, you took me on unofficially,” Allectus went on. “The officers on your staff know me, but I would have more authority when I go elsewhere if I were in uniform. That is,” he added with sudden diffidence, “if I’ve earned my place here….”

  “Allectus!” Carausius gripped his shoulder, and the younger man straightened, his dark eyes shining as if he were holding back tears. For a moment the Admiral was reminded of Teleri—both had the fine bones and dark coloring of the tribes that lived in the west country. They might well be related, somewhere along the line.

  “My boy, can you doubt it? I can scarcely imagine how I managed before you were here. But if you want a uniform, then that is what you shall have.”

  Allectus smiled blindingly and, bending, kissed the Admiral’s hand. Carausius let go of his shoulder, a little surprised by his intensity, but touched as well. “Go on now, and sleep,” he said gently. “You do not need to exhaust yourself in my service to prove your loyalty.”

  When Allectus had gone, Carausius stood looking after him, still smiling. If Teleri bore me a son he might look like that, he thought suddenly. He had taken her for other reasons, but she was his wife. Why should he not hope for a son, born of this land, to follow him?

  He strode down the corridor toward his quarters more eagerly than usual. Teleri had made it clear that she did not welcome his embraces, but most women wanted to bear children. And perhaps, if she did so, she would come to feel a kindness for the father of her child.

  But when he came to his chamber, the bed was empty.

  For a moment Carausius stood staring, astonished by the depth of pain at the thought he had been betrayed. Then reason reasserted itself. Even if Teleri had been the kind of woman to engage in a love affair, she was too intelligent to have done so by night, when every sleeper was accounted for and guards paced the grounds. Softly, he crossed the floor and pushed open the door to the inner room.

  Upon a low table a lamp was burning. Light gleamed from the rim of the silver bowl before it, and glowed in Teleri’s white robes. The flame rippled as he entered, but she did not stir. Scarcely daring to breathe, he knelt beside her.

  Her eyes were fixed on the dark surface of the water, and her lips moved.

  “Dierna…” she whispered, then stilled, as if listening.

  “Lady,” Carausius said at last in a voice scarcely louder than her own, “let your vision seek the coasts of Britannia. What do you see?” He himself was not sure to which of them he was speaking, and when Teleri stirred again he could not tell who replied.

  “Dark waters…I see a river, low banks, treetops dark against the stars.” Her breath caught and she swayed. “A strong current…Ripples gleam…. Oars lift shining from the water….”

  “Are they warships? How many?” Carausius snapped. She twitched, but in a moment she was answering.

  “Six…going upstream…”

  “Where?” This time he kept his voice low, but he could not control its intensity. “Which river? Which town?”

  “I see a bridge…and red stone walls,” the answer came slowly. “Dierna says…it is Durobrivae! Go! You must go quickly!” The last words, though Teleri’s mouth had spoken them, sounded so much like Dierna’s voice that Carausius blinked. Then th
e woman swayed and he caught her in his arms.

  Pulse pounding, he lifted Teleri and carried her to the bed. Though he twitched with the need to be gone, he took the time to tuck the covers around her. She did not wake, but her breathing was already deepening to the regular rhythms of sleep. Her closed features had the remote serenity of a Vestal’s, or a child’s, and in that moment he could not imagine how he had ever looked at her with desire.

  “My Lady, I thank you.” Carausius bent and kissed her on the brow. Then he strode from the room, already forgetting her as he called out the first of the orders that would take him to sea once more.

  From the military point of view, the season that followed was largely successful. Dierna’s sight was not always true, and Teleri was not always able to understand her sendings. And there were also times when Carausius was already at sea and could not be warned. But as the High Priestess had promised, the alliance with Avalon gave the Admiral an edge that enabled him, if not to destroy the enemy, at least to maintain a kind of parity. If the Romans could not always come to the rescue before the raiders had finished looting a settlement, they were often in time to avenge it. And the traders who sailed from the ports of Britannia grew heavy with the unclaimed spoils that Carausius sent to Rome.

  At the end of the summer, when the haystacks stood heaped high in the meadows and the barley was nodding before the reaper’s scythe, Carausius called a council of British leaders from all the territories of the Saxon Shore to discuss the future defense of Britannia. With Teleri’s help, he had done far more than Maximian expected of him. But it was not enough. For the land to be truly safe, he must somehow persuade those who lived inland to help him. They met in the great basilica at Venta Belgarum, the only place in the region that was large enough to contain them all.

  Carausius stood up, automatically twitching the folds of his toga so that they would fall in the graceful sweep familiar from Roman statuary. In the past two years he had been required to wear the toga often enough so that he no longer chafed at the inconvenience. But as he draped the loose end over one arm and lifted his hand to call the assembly to order, it occurred to him that the stately movements required if one wanted to keep the garment in place no doubt went far to explain the Roman ideal of dignitas.

  “My friends, I have no gift of oratory such as they teach in Rome. I am a soldier. If I were not charged with the duties of the Dux Tractus Armoricani et Nervicani, the coasts to either side of the Channel, I would not be here, and so, if I speak with a soldier’s bluntness, you must forgive me.” Carausius paused, looking at the men who sat, swathed in their own togas, on the benches before him. By their dress, he might have been addressing the Senate of Rome, but here and there he saw a man with the fair skin and ruddy hair of pure Celtic blood, or the fine-boned intensity of a race that was older still.

  “I have called you here,” he went on, “to speak of the defense of the lands which gave you birth, and which have become a home to me.”

  “That is the Army’s job,” responded a man from one of the back benches. “And you have been doing it well. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Not as well as he might.” Another turned to glare at him, and then back to scowl at Carausius. “Not two months since the scum hit Vigniacis and destroyed my workshops. Where were you then?”

  Carausius frowned, and Allectus, at his elbow, whispered, “His name is Trebellius and he owns a bronze foundry. They supply many of our ship fittings.”

  “I was chasing a reiver who had sunk a boat carrying one of your cargoes, I believe,” answered the Admiral smoothly. “Indeed, your goods have served us well, and I pray to the gods that you will be back in production swiftly. Surely you cannot think I would choose to risk an industry whose output I so desperately need.” There was a murmur of appreciation.

  “The fleet is doing its best for us, Trebellius. Let’s not complain,” said Pollio, who had helped organize the meeting.

  “We are doing our best,” echoed Carausius, “but sometimes, as our friend here has pointed out, it is not enough. We have only so many vessels, and they cannot be everywhere. If we could improve the fortresses we have and build more, and if we had the ships to serve them, you would not have to weep over looted houses and burned walls.”

  “That’s all very well,” a man from Clausentum replied, “but what do you expect us to do?”

  Carausius sought inspiration from the frescoed wall, where a Jupiter who bore a strong resemblance to Diocletian was offering a wreath to a Hercules with the face of Maximian.

  “Your duty as civic fathers and leaders of your towns. You are accustomed to stand the cost of public works and civic buildings. I ask only that you apply some of those resources to defending them. Help me build more fortresses and feed my men!”

  “That has stung them where they live,” murmured Allectus as the hall erupted in disputation.

  “It is one thing to build our own cities.” Pollio stood up at last as spokesman. “We have been bred up to do that, and our resources are, if barely, adequate to the task. But defense is the Emperor’s responsibility. Why else do we tax our people so heavily and send the money to Rome? If we pay for our own defense, will he squander the money we send him on Syria, or throw it away in another campaign against the Goths?”

  “Leave the taxes that are levied in Britannia here, to support our government, and we will gladly pay for our defenses,” said Prince Eiddin Mynoc, “but it is not justice to take all and give nothing in return.”

  The walls shook as most of the others began to shout their approval. Carausius tried to tell them that he could only make reports and recommendations and had no way to make the Emperor listen, but he could not be heard.

  “The Emperor must help us,” came the cry. “If you petition Diocletian for support we will stand behind you. But support us he must. Any man who wants to be called Emperor of Britannia must earn the name!”

  “What will you do?” Allectus asked. Carausius winced, recognizing the anxiety in his eyes.

  Cerialis had set the dining couches in his garden. The late-summer twilight laid a golden haze like a veil across the trees, through which they could hear the river lapping softly against the reeds. To break this dream of peace with talk of war seemed sacrilege.

  “We will send to Diocletian.” Carausius spoke in a low voice, as if afraid to be overheard, though only Allectus and Aelius were near. “Of course we must do that, but I know how severely his resources are stressed already, and I have no great hopes for relief from Rome.”

  He drained his goblet, hoping the wine would deaden his headache, and held it out to be refilled by the slave who hovered nearby. “I do not understand how you British can be so shortsighted! It does no good to ask the Emperor for funds. He has to watch over the whole Empire, and from where he sits, there may be other places in greater need than Britannia.”

  “There lies the difficulty,” answered Cerialis soberly. “It is hard enough to get my countrymen to look beyond the walls of their own cities, much less beyond our shores. As they see it, they have paid for protection, and should not have to pay again….”

  Carausius closed his eyes; his head was pounding, as if someone were trying to split it in two. On one side, the responses drilled into him by twenty years in uniform railed against these provincials who did not understand that all the parts of the Empire depended on the strength of the whole. But the other, the self that had been born when the priestess spilled his blood on the soil, yammered that nothing, not even his oath to the Emperor, was as important as the safety of Britannia.

  “I have done what I can to raise money, but by the means I have available there is little more to be gained.” Allectus’ voice seemed to come from a great distance.

  “By the means available…” the Admiral repeated, an idea surfacing from his inner turmoil. If neither the Emperor nor the British princes would give in, then he had to find a third way. He raised himself on one elbow, looking at them somberly.

>   “The gods know I have tried to play by the rules! But if my duty requires me to bend them, then that is what I will have to do. When we take a ship, even the Emperor’s law allows me a portion of the plunder. From now on Britannia will receive a proportion of the spoils as well. I trust you, Allectus, to word our reports in a way that will…obscure what is going on.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  High and clear, the whistle of the watcher came floating over the marshes. At the foot of the Tor it was heard, and a trilling cry carried the message upward.

  “One comes. Call the mists and send out the barge that will bring him to Avalon!”

  Dierna draped her long veil over her head and shoulders. Her heart had begun to beat with unaccustomed excitement; she paused a moment, surprised it should be so, then took a deep breath and stepped out from the shadows of her house into the brightness of the summer’s day. She cast a critical eye over the priestesses who awaited her.

  Crida, seeing the look, tossed her head. “Are you afraid we will not do you credit? Why are you so careful? It is only a Roman.”

  “Not entirely,” answered the High Priestess. “He is a tribesman from a people not so different from our own, forced, like so many of our young men, into a Roman mold. And he is a man marked by the gods….”

  Silenced, Crida covered her own face with her veil. Dierna nodded and led the way down the winding path. As they neared the shore, Ceridachos came out to meet her, dressed in all the Arch-Druid’s regalia, attended by Lewal, who had met their visitor before.

  She wondered how the Tor would appear to the Admiral’s eyes. Over the years the first whitewashed wattle buildings had been replaced by stone, but they nestled against the side of the hill. Only the great Processional Way, with its paired pillars, had a majesty as mighty as the works of Rome, if different in kind. And the standing stones that crowned the Tor had been ancient when Rome was only a scattering of huts upon the seven hills.