"Then, though no one else knows it, we will work together -said Gaius finally, his gaze returning to the child. "And with a Governor and a High Priestess for parents, what might this little one not do? Who knows; perhaps he will be Emperor himself someday."
At that, the baby opened his eyes, considering them both impartially with his vague gaze. Gaius picked him up again, cradling him awkwardly. "Be still now, Lord of the World," he whispered as the baby squirmed, "and let me hold you."
At that thought - that anything so small and pink could ever grow up to be Emperor - his parents laughed.
Twenty
Gaius returned to Londinium in a kind of bittersweet daze. He had found Eilan, and lost her. He had been forced to leave
the child she had borne him, and yet, he had a son! At times, as the capital and Julia drew nearer, he wanted to turn his horse
and gallop back to Eilan, but he could find no way they could stay together as a family. And he remembered how stern her face had grown when Eilan told him what being High Priestess meant to her. For a few moments she had not looked like his Eilan at all. It chilled him to think of the risk she had run to prove herself worthy, and how she had risked his son!
And yet she had wept when they parted. So, to be truthful, had he. If Eilan thought he got any pleasure from the thought of being married to Julia Licinia, she was very much mistaken. As he breasted the last hill and saw the tile roofs of the city basking in the afternoon sun, he reminded himself that he was only doing this for her sake and for the sake of their child.
It was twilight by the time he reached the house of Licinius. The Procurator had not yet returned from the tabularium, but Gaius found Julia in the women's atrium. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him; making her prettier than he had ever seen her. Not, of course, as pretty as Eilan; but then no one could be as beautiful as Eilan had become. Still, Julia might become very handsome in time.
She greeted him demurely. "So you are back from the West Country, Gaius."
"As I stand before you, what would you say if I told you I was still in the North?"
She giggled. "Well, I have heard that the spirits of the slain sometimes appear to those they leave behind." Suddenly she was frightened, and the mirth went out of her voice. "Gaius, tell me you are only teasing me and that I truly see you here, alive and well!" Abruptly he realized how young she was.
"I am flesh and blood," he said wearily. But since he had been here last he had seen death and dealt it; he had seen his future in the eyes of a new-born child. Before, he had been a boy. He was a man now, and had learned to think like one. No wonder if Julia was confused by the change.
Julia came forward and touched his arm. "Yes - you are alive," she said, more steadily. "And you have seen your British girl?" She gazed up at him.
"I have seen her —" he began, searching for a way to tell her what had happened. Julia had a right to know what kind of a husband she would be getting if she married him.
But before he could get the words out, he heard Licinius's halting step on the mosaic floor and the moment was lost.
"So you're back, my dear fellow." Licinius seemed genuinely glad to see him. "I suppose this means we shall soon be having a wedding here."
"I hope so, sir," Gaius said, and hoped they thought his hesitation had been modesty. Perhaps it was just as well, for if Julia had refused to marry him, what hope had he of fulfilling his promises to protect Eilan and their child?
Julia smiled radiantly. Perhaps being married to her would have its compensations. She caught his glance and blushed.
"Come and see my wedding veil," she said invitingly. "I have been working on the embroidery for months. It's all right to show it to Gaius now, isn't it, Father?" she asked.
"Yes, my dear, of course, but I still think you should have been content with a linen veil. That was good enough for a Roman woman in the days of the Republic, and it should have been good enough for you," Licinius grumbled.
"And look at what became of your Republic," Julia said impertinently. "I wanted the most fashionable veil that could be had — and I think you did too!"
The veil was indeed beautiful, of sheer, flame-colored silk, which Julia was embroidering in gold thread with fruit and flowers.
When she had left them, Licinius took Gaius quietly aside.
"I have set the date for the formal betrothal at the end of this month, before the unlucky days at the beginning of March. Your father cannot be present, but the Legate should be able to do without him for a time by April, when my augurs have found a
favorable day for the wedding. It is short notice, but I think we can be ready. Otherwise it would be the second half of June before the season was auspicious, and while you have been off winning honors among the Caledonians my daughter has had to wait an extra year to be married." He smiled benignly. "If that's quite all right with you, my dear boy?"
"Oh yes, quite -" Gaius said faintly. And what would they all do, he wondered, if he said it was not? He wondered why Licinius bothered to consult him at all.
Then Julia came back into the room, and as she reached out to him, he realized that he could not betray the trust in those dark eyes. He and Eilan had never really had a chance; at least he might be able to give some happiness to this Roman girl.
A watery sunlight streamed through the door of the hut in the forest, for it had been raining earlier. Eilan moved slowly about inside. Putting on her clothes, part of her awareness turned to the small sounds the baby made in his sleep. Her strength had returned more quickly after Gaius's visit, but it still hurt to move. She had been much torn by the birth, and she was easily tired.
The baby slumbered in his basket, wrapped in an old shawl. Eilan stopped for a moment to admire him. To her, Gawen was all the more beautiful because she fancied she could see a blurred reflection of his father in the nub of his nose and the dark feathering of his brows.
She sat for a moment contemplating her child's face. Gawen . . .she thought, my little king! What would Macellius - supposing he should ever hear of his grandson - think of that? She wanted to pick him up but she had so much else to do, and he was sleeping peacefully. So peacefully, in fact, that she bent close to catch the small sound of his breathing. Reassured, she straightened again.
One garment at a time, with long rests between them, she managed to dress and to comb and braid her long hair. Ordinarily Annis would have helped her, but she had been sent to the village to replenish their supplies. Having preserved her secret so long, it would not do to have the old woman present when Ardanos arrived.
Eilan wrapped the braid around her head in a matronly style that was new to her. Perhaps she could face him with more confidence if he saw her as a grown woman instead of a frightened child.
What did the old man want? Reason told her that he had come to order her back to the Forest House, but again and again she had to repress a chill of fear. Did he mean to send her away after all?
She thought wildly of following Gaius, if he was not yet married. Or Mairi might shelter her, unless their father forbade it. Caillean had told her that Bendeigid was back from the North, gaunt as a winter wolf and much embittered by the ruin of their cause. But so long as he lived quietly at his elder daughter's steading, the Romans were unlikely to bother him.
Once Eilan got her strength back she could care for herself and her child by hiring out to some farm. A healthy boy could always earn his keep. It might be wiser, though, not to say who his father was. She herself was skilled in all manner of household work, spinning and weaving, milking and churning; if she had to support herself and her son, she certainly could. She" sighed and sat back on the bed, knowing that these were only fantasies.
She had heard that the Roman Vestals could leave the temple when they reached the age of thirty, but here the only release for a High Priestess was the funeral fire. She remembered that Ardanos's first reaction to her pregnancy had been to sentence her and her unborn child to death, and there was Bendeigid's threat to s
trangle her with his own hands. But surely, if they meant to kill her, they could already have easily done it.
By the time the Arch-Druid's shadow fell across the doorway she had worked herself into a state of numb apprehension.
"I am glad to see you are better," he said neutrally, looking down at her.
"Oh yes, I am feeling quite well, Grandsire."
He scowled. "Indeed I am your grandsire, and you will do well to remember it!"
He strode to the basket, looked down at the child for a moment, then lifted it in his arms. "But you have made your bed, and now we must all lie in it. This masquerade has gone on long enough. Three days should be enough for your milk to dry off, and then you will return to the Forest House to prepare for the spring rituals. As for your son, he will be fostered elsewhere." He turned and started towards the door.
"Stop!" Eilan cried out. "Where are you taking him?" She felt anguish swelling in her throat and remembered how their hound bitch had howled when Bendeigid took her puppies out to be drowned because she had mismated with a neighbor's terrier.
He regarded her unblinkingly. "Believe me, it is better that you do not know. I pledge you that he will be perfectly well and safe. Perhaps, if you do everything you are told, we may let you see him from time to time."
Eilan wondered why she had never noticed before how cruel Ardanos looked when he smiled, and how very long and sharp his teeth were. "You cannot," she cried. "I will care for him. You must not take him from me. Oh, please, I beg you —"
Ardanos's bushy brows met. "Why such surprise?" he asked with edged control. "Did you suppose you could nurse your child before all the priestesses in the House of Maidens. Be reasonable."
"Give him to me," she cried. "You cannot have him." She snatched at the wrapped bundle in her grandfather's arms, and the baby, waking, began to scream.
"You little fool, let him go."
Eilan's legs would no longer uphold her, but she clung to his knees. "I beg you, I beg you, Grandfather! You cannot," she was babbling, "you cannot take my son from me . . ."
"I must, and I will," Ardanos said fiercely, thrust outward with his knee and wrenched his robe free. As she collapsed he carried the wailing infant out through the open door.
And then there was only the dappling of sunlight, as innocently mocking as a baby's smile.
"Is this your revenge, you monster?" Caillean banged the door shut behind her and stormed into the room, too angry to appreciate the fact that in his quarters in the Roman town, the Arch-Druid had a door to slam. By Roman standards the house would have seemed plain and small; its straight, plastered walls and sharp corners seemed unfriendly to British eyes.
Ardanos looked up from his meal, agape, and she marshaled the words stored up during her ride from Vernemeton.
"You wicked, cruel old man! I promised Lhiannon before she died to help you. But that does not make me your slave or your torturer!"
He opened his mouth to speak but she raged on. "How could you treat Eilan - your own daughter's child - that way? I tell you I will be no part of this; let her keep her child or —" she drew breath, "or I will appeal directly to the people and let the Goddess judge between us."
"You would not —" Ardanos began.
"Try me!" Caillean retorted implacably. "I assume that you have some use for her or you would not have let her survive," she continued more moderately. "Well, I tell you, unless Eilan is allowed to have her child with her she will die."
"I suppose it is not surprising that the girl should be such a fool, but I did not expect it of you," he said when she let him get a word in at last. "Stop exaggerating. Women do not die so easily."
"Do they not? Eilan was bleeding again when I found her. You almost lost her, old man, and then where would all your plans be? Do you truly believe Dieda would be as pliant to your will?"
"In the Goddess's name, what do you want of me, woman?"
"Don't dare to speak of the Goddess; you have shown me over and over that you know less than nothing of Her," Caillean said angrily. For the sake of Lhiannon who - the gods know why — loved you and believed in your plans, I have helped you so far.
"But you cannot intimidate me as you did Lhiannon, nor frighten me; I have too little to lose. I would be willing to go to the priests and let them judge between us. Treating with the Romans and interfering with Oracles is a nasty business, or at least they would think it so, not understanding —" she stopped to sneer - "your high purpose."
"Why are you doing this? Eilan is no kin of yours." Ardanos was gazing at her as if he really did not understand.
Caillean sighed. She had loved Lhiannon as a mother, but she was coming to realize that Eilan was like a sister, or like the daughter she had never had — and never would, now that her moonblood had ceased to flow. Barren as she was, and in a way that would have been impossible when she was younger, she understood Eilan's passionate need to keep her child.
"It should be enough to know that you really cannot stop me. I suggest that you believe that, Ardanos, for you have more to lose than I. Do you think the other priests of your Order would not inquire why this child should live at all? You have a hold over Eilan while she knows you can take her child; you have - thanks be to all the gods at once - none over me."
The Arch-Druid looked thoughtful, but even as she began to hope that she was convincing him, Caillean realized that what she had said was not strictly true. Ardanos threatened her by threatening Eilan.
"Bring the baby back, Ardanos," Caillean, who in her years with Lhiannon had learned all about compromise, softened her voice. "Even if Eilan has the child with her, they are still in your power.
Do you think it is a small thing to have the Priestess of the Oracles in the hollow of your hand?"
"Perhaps I did act a little hastily -" he said finally. "But what I told the girl was true. If she flaunts her son at the Forest House we might as well proclaim her shame to the world. How do you suggest we maintain the deception if I let her keep him there?"
Caillean's shoulders slumped as she realized that she had won. "I have thought of a way —"
The day appointed for Gaius's wedding dawned clear and bright. Gaius woke when the spring sun shone in through his window, and blinked as it glowed blindingly on the whiteness of the toga draped across the chair. In the past year he had been required to wear the garment at the social and diplomatic occasions at which he had accompanied his prospective father-in-law and had become a little more used to handling its draperies, but he still found it awkward. Agricola boasted that he had taught the sons of British chieftains to wear the toga, but Gaius wondered. He had been brought up as a Roman, but he was still more comfortable in uniform or in the tunic and trews of the tribes.
He sat up, surveying the garment in dismay. His father, who had come in from Deva the day before and was sleeping in the same room, turned over and lifted one eyebrow.
"I do think they could invent a better ceremonial garment," Gaius grumbled, "or at least something more convenient."
"A toga is more than a garment," said Macellius. "It is a symbol." He sat up and to the amazement of his son, who was never at his best the first thing in the morning, began to discourse on the toga's honorable history.
But presently Gaius started to understand. Even, or perhaps especially, here at the far end of the Empire, the right to wear the white toga of a citizen was a way of distinguishing between the masters of the world and those they had conquered, and the narrow purple stripe of the eques that marked his tunic an honor dearly won. And that was very important to men like his father. Compared to that, the comfort of the garment was irrelevant.
Much as he would have liked to toss the offending piece of cloth out of the window, it was just one of the things he had to accept when he threw in his lot with Rome. At least the toga was woolen, and so was the tunic he would wear beneath it. Though the April wind blew chill and rainy he would not freeze.
Sighing, he allowed himself to be bathed and shaved by his
freedman, slipped into his tunic and sandals, and then set to work trying to figure out how to drape the thing. After a few moments his father, his face gone so wooden that Gaius felt sure he was suppressing a grin, took the toga away from him. Deftly he arranged the pleats of white wool to hang down in front of the left shoulder, adjusted the drape across the back and under his son's right arm, and then drew the remainder carefully across his chest and over the left shoulder in the other direction so that the folds were draped gracefully over his arm.
"There now." He stepped back and surveyed his son indulgently. "Stand up a little straighter and you could pose for a statue."
"I feel like one," Gaius mumbled, afraid to move lest the whole arrangement come undone. This time his father did laugh.
"Never mind; it's natural for a bridegroom to be nervous. You'll feel better when it's all done."
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