Once two of them were in that wood together. Each kept pigs for the king of a neighboring tuath: Dardriu for the king of file, Coriran for the king of Múscraige. To his master King Aed came Coriran and said; “We fell into a deep sleep, Dardriu and I. Adream, we beheld the Ridge of the Beings. Before it were a yew tree and a flagstone. Somehow we knew that that was the tree of the Eóganachta, and that he who stands upon the stone shall wax great.”
The druid of Aed thought deeply, sought visions, and declared: “The Síd Drommen shall become the seat of the kings over all Mumu. From him who first lights a fire under that yew shall they descend.”
“Let us go light it!” cried Aed.
“Let us await the morning,” counselled the druid: for it was late, and the sun hidden behind lowering clouds. Soon a snowstorm began, this early in the year.
It caused Conual, his wife, and their men to lose their way as they fared down from the north. They blundered into the wood and took shelter below the rock. A yew tree growing there, it leaves withered but as yet unfallen, gave a roof of sorts, letting them kindle a fire. A flat stone at his foot made a place to stand while shoes dried out.
So did Aed find them. Although downcast, the king did not venture to quarrel with the Gods. Conual had, indeed, a birthright claim. Moreover, he was a friend of the mighty Niall, of whom they had report. The upshot was that Aed acknowledged Conual king of the surrounding territory and gave him his own son as hostage.
Thus the story that Niall heard in spring. He smiled and let the men go whom Conual had brought from Brittannia. Among them were several ollam craftsmen—engineers, stonemasons—who understood the Roman arts of fortification. With them Niall sent rich gifts.
A year passed.
For Niall it, like the twelvemonth before, was less warlike than many had been. Both years were nonetheless busy. His sons champed to be off conquering, but their father held them back. “Lay the keel, fasten the ribs, bind the strakes,” he said. “When the ship is ready, we will sail.” They did not fully understand, not being seamen like him.
Niall did complete the taking over of those nine tuaths which had been tributary to the Ulati. He raised new kings among them to replace those he had felled in battle, and a high King above these: all obedient to him. They were well content, because he returned to them that governance over the sacrifices at Mag Slecht which had been theirs from of old. Despite yielding this, which cost him little and won him much in the way of goodwill, he never let wane his resolve to have vengeance for Domnuald—and someday, somehow, for Breccan.
The hostages that the tuaths gave him he treated so generously that they vowed to fight at his side when he became ready for his onslaught against the Ulati. Likewise would their kinfolk. The kingdom he had founded for these became known as the Aregésla, They Who Give Hostages, a name borne proudly. People began calling him Niall of the Nine Hostages.
—King Fergus Fogae in Emain Macha was fully aware of the storm that brewed in the south. He thought of launching an attack himself, decided that that would be ruinous, and set about strengthening defenses throughout his realm. His poets reminded him of how Cú Culanni had brought Medb and her Condachtae low. Those songs echoed spookily in the hall.
—Next Imbolc came messengers from Conual to Temir. They bore gifts no less than those Niall had sent south, and fateful tidings.
Conual’s power had grown like the antlers on a stag. While small, his force of exiles was schooled in ways of war unknown to Mumu. Each battle they won brought new allegiances, thus a larger host to call upon. Without fighting, even more chieftains swore faith to this newcomer whom the Gods had clearly blessed. Lately he had gotten for a second wife Amend, daughter of Oengus Bolg, king of the powerful Corco Loígde. They holding land on the south coast, Conual thereby gained an opening to the outer world.
The magic that flamed around his name came not least from the seat he had chosen. It was the very Síd Drommen: an audacity that brought not disaster on him, but victory after victory. There he was building a stone stronghold of the Roman kind, impregnable to anything that Gaelic men could bring against it: Liss inna Lochraide, the Fort of the Heroes. Already, in the mouths of the folk, the name of the rock itself was changing to Latin Castellum, which soon got softened to Cassel.
The poet who related these thing to Niall knew better than to say so, but unmistakably underlying his staves was glee, that his lord’s rise was so swift that the deeds of the Temir King could not compare.
Niall sat silent a long time, staring into firelight darkness. Finally those who sat close saw his lips move. “The Síd Drommen,” whisperea forth. “He dared. He dared”
2
Forty days after solstice, the diminishing gloom of winter was made bright in Ys. Queen Tambilis bore her first child. Mother and daughter were in the best of health. As he was wont on such occasions, the King decreed festival immediately after the hallowing of the new little Semuramat. Legionaries formed an honor guard when he led Tambilis from the Temple of Belisama to the palace. With them came the rest of the Nine—on as high a holiday as this, the Gods required none to stay alone on Sena—and the magnates of the city with their wives. Wine, mead, and rich food from the royal stores were distributed among the poor, that they too might celebrate. Entertainers of every kind, having anticipated the event, swarmed merrily about. After dark the Fire Fountain blossomed, though weather kept the Forum almost deserted.
In a house near Menhir Place there was no mirth. It was a small but decent house, such as a married soldier could afford to rent. The matron was having her own first childbirth. Her labor started about when the Queen’s did. Still it went on. She was Keban, wedded to Budic.
Adminius had excused him from duty, never expecting he would be gone this long. He sat on a bench in the main room, elbows on knees, head bowed between shoulders. A lamp picked furnishings out of the shadows that filled every corner. His breath smoked in the chill. Outside, the night wind hooted, shook the door, flung handfuls of hail against shutters.
The midwife came in from the bedroom holding a candle. She shambled in her exhaustion. Budic raised his face. The youthfulness it had kept through the years was hollowed out. He had not shaved all this while; the whiskers made a thin fuzz over jaws and cheeks. “How goes it?” he croaked.
“Best you look in,” the woman said, flat-voiced. “You might not see her alive again. I’ll keep doing what I can, sir, but my arts are spent.”
Budic rose and stumbled into the other chamber. A brazier gave warmth that sharpened the reek of sweat, urine, vomit, burnt tallow. Enough light seeped through the doorway to show him the swollen form and sunken wet countenance. Her eyes were shut, except for a glimmer of white. Her mouth was half open, her breath shallow. Now and then a feeble convulsion shook her. Helplessly, he laid his palm on her forehead. “Can you hear me, beloved?” he asked. He got no answer.
A sound drew his attention—crash of wood against wall, suddenly loudened storm noises, the midwife’s cry of amazement. He went back into the main room. A tall, grizzle-bearded man in a coarse robe and paenula had entered. One knotty hand gripped a staff Beneath a half-shaven scalp his features jutted like the headlands.
“Corentinus!” Budic exclaimed in Latin. “What brings you, Father?”
“A sense within me that you have need, my son,” replied the chorepiscopus.
The midwife traced a warding crescent. Tales had long gone about that this man of Christ sometimes had foreknowledge.
“Need of your prayers,” Budic said. “Oh, Father, she’s dying.”
“I feared that. Let me see.” Corentinus brushed past him. Budic sank down on the bench and wept.
Corentinus returned. “She is far gone, poor soul,” he said. “This was just a little late in life, maybe, for her to start bearing. I thought she was barren, and beseeched God to gladden the two of you with a child, but—”
Budic lifted his gaze. “Can you pray her back to me?”
“I can only ask God
’s mercy. His will be done.” Corentinus pondered. “Although—” Decision: “He helps us mortals, even unto an angelic summons, but we must do our share. My rough medical skills are of no use here. The Gallicenae command healing powers beyond any I’ve ever heard of elsewhere. I’ll go fetch one.”
Budic gasped. “What? But they’re feasting at the palace. I know because Cynan looked in on us on his way to parade.”
Corentinus rapped out a laugh. “The more merit in the charity, then. Who can tell but what this may start the pagan on a path to salvation? Hold fast, son. I’ll be back as soon as may be.” He went out into the night.
The midwife shuddered. “What did he want, sir?” she asked. Her Latin was rudimentary.
Budic shook his head, numbed beyond his numbness at the thought of such a raven breaking into the King’s banquet and demanding the aid of the Nine.
Whoo-oo called the wind, and more hail rattled over the cobbles.
Budic returned to the bedside. Time crept.
The door thumped open. Corentinus loomed above a slight form in a cowled cloak hastily thrown over splendor. Emerging, Budic recognized Innilis. He pulled himself erect and saluted. Behind the two came a servant woman with a box in her arms, and then Adminius in armor that sheened wet.
“Stand aside,” ordered the Queen. Budic had never before heard her anything but soft-spoken. She stepped into the bedroom. “Light.” The midwife got the candle. “Well want more than this. I’ve brought tapers.” The servant, who had followed, began unpacking the physician’s things from the box. Innilis closed the door.
Adminius looked around. “Filthy weather,” he said. “You got something ter warm a fellow’s belly? The centurion ’ad us inside, of course. We’d get our share when the fancy part of the evening was done and ’e relieved us guards.”
Mechanically, Budic set out wine and water jugs, cups, a loaf of bread and sections of sausage. “He let you go just like that?” he asked.
“’E’s our centurion, ain’t ’e? Told me ter convey ’is sympathy and best wishes. ’E can’t leave the feast, that’d insult some of their ’igh and mightinesses there, but ’e’ll stop by in the morning. I came along on be’alf of the boys.”
“The priestess Innilis—”
“She honors her calling,” said Corentinus.
Toward dawn she trod forth. Her face was pallid, eyes dark-rimmed, hands atremble. “Keban should live,” she told the men. “The child—it was a boy—I had to sacrifice the child for the mother, but I think he was doomed in any case. Nay, do not go in yet, not ere Mella has… wrapped him. Besides, Keban has swooned. But I think, by Belisama’s grace, she will live. She may be in frail health hereafter, and I doubt she will conceive again. But your wife should live, Budic.”
He went to his knees. “Christ b-b-be thanked,” he stammered in Latin. And in Ysan, lifting eyes burnt-out but adoring: “How can I thank you, my lady? How can I repay you?”
Innilis smiled the least bit, laid a hand on his blond head, and murmured, “The Nine take no pay, unless it be in the coin of love.”
“Ever shall I love the Gallicenae and, and stand ready to serve them, whatever their wish may be. By the body of Christ I swear it.”
She declined his offer of refreshment and departed with her attendant, promising to visit later in the day. Adminius escorted them. Corentinus stayed behind. “Let us thank the Lord, my son,” he said. His tone was harsh.
3
At Imbolc Niall Náegéslach gave out that after Beltene he would fare overseas. Unspoken was: “Let Conual Corcc down in Mumu have his fortress. The Romans threw him out of Britannia. I will carry my sword there.”
Remembering what had happened under the wall of Ys, some men were daunted. Most, though, felt no forebodings. In the ten years since, the King at Temir had won back everything he lost, and far more. This foray could well begin laying the groundwork of his vengeance on the city of the hundred towers. Well-informed chieftains knew that the terrible Stilicho had not only himself quitted Britannia, he had taken with him many troops to use against the Germani who threatened Gallia. Complacent and thinly defended, the island east of Ériu offered wealth for the taking.
So it proved. Those who met with the King and followed him in galleys and currachs found easy pickings. From Alba to Dummonia they ravaged. Men they killed, women they raped, slaves and booty they took. What legionaries there remained never got to a place the raiders struck before they were gone, leaving smoldering ruins, beheaded corpses, weeping survivors who had fled and then crept back home. The Britons themselves were ill prepared and fought poorly—save for Cunedag’s tough hillmen, whose territories Niall steered clear of. Elsewhere he opened a way for Scoti to return, resettling along the western shores.
In blood he washed away his bitterness. As hay harvest and Lúgnassat neared he went home full of hope, he went home in glory.
He came back to wrath. In his absence, the Lagini had entered Mide and made havoc.
Eochaid, son of King Éndae Qennsalach, led that great inroad: Eochaid, whose first taste of battle seven years ago had become rank with defeat at the hands of Niall; Eochaid, whose handsomeness was forever marred by the scars of the blistering satire which Tigernach, son of Laidchenn, laid on him that same day. Since then he had known victory. He joined the Loígis clans when trouble broke loose with men of Condacht or Mumu, to repel the invaders and harry them past their own borders. He helped bring the allied kingdom of Ossraige to obedience, and collected tribute that subordinate tuaths in the mountains would have denied. Yet always the memory of the humbling festered.
They were, after all, as honor-proud in Qóiqet Lagini as men were anywhere. In Gallia their distant ancestors had been the Gáileóin, the Men of the Spears, which the Lagini claimed was also the meaning of their present name. Having entered Ériu, they formed their own confederation at the same time as the Goddess Macha of the Red Locks built Emain Macha to the north. Their seat of high Kings, Dun Alinni, was the work of Mess Delmon, who cast out the dark Fomóri, and pursued them into the very realms of the dead. The Lagini held Temir itself until the Condachtae who founded Mide drove them from it.
Long had Eochaid brooded upon this. When the news came that Niall was bound abroad with as large a following as could put to sea, he shouted that this was a chance given by the Gods Themselves. Éndae, his father, urged caution; but Éndae was weakened by age, while the country throbbed with fierce young men eager to hear the son.
Thus Eochaid gathered a host on the west bank of the Ruirthech, which near Dun Alinni flowed north before bending eastward to the sea. His charioteers led the warriors on into Mide, straight toward Temir.
They failed to take it. The sons of Niall who had stayed behind held it too strongly. Yet bloody was the fighting ere the Lagini recoiled. Thereupon they went widely about, killing, plundering, burning. Countless were the treasures, cattle, slaves, and heads they took home.
Niall came back. When he saw the ruin that had been wrought, he did not rage aloud as once he would have done. Men shivered to behold an anger as bleak as the winter during which he made his preparations.
It may be that at first King Fergus of the Ulati breathed easier, knowing that for another year he need not await attack out of Mide. If so, his happiness soon blew away, on the wind that bore the smoke out of Qóiqet Lagini. From end to end of that Fifth Niall and his sons went. They pierced and scattered the levies that sought to stay them, as a prow cleaves waves, flinging foam to starboard and larboard. His ship, though, plowed red waters, and the spray was flames and the whine in the rigging was from women who keened over their dead.
Éndae yielded before his land should be utterly waste. Now Niall exacted the Bóruma; and when he brought it back, chief among the hostages who stumbled bound at his chariot wheels was Eochaid.
Never did Niall show honor to this prince, as he did to those he had from the Aregésla and elsewhere. The Laginach hostages lived crowded into a wretched hut, miserably fed and clad.
They were only allowed out once a day to exercise, and that only because otherwise they would have taken sick and died—which some did anyhow. When Niall fared in procession, most of the hostages in his train wore golden chains, the merest token of a captivity which was actually a life full and free in the royal household. The Lagini went in shackles of iron.
On his deathbed a few months later, the druid Nemain reproached the King for this. “You are ungenerous, darling, the which is not like you. Was it not enough to reclaim, in the Bóruma, threefold what that young man reaved us of?”
“I have my revenge to finish,” Niall answered. “Let Eochaid meanwhile be my sign to the Gods that I do not forget wrongs done my kindred.”
The old man struggled for breath. “What… do you mean… by that—you whom I love?”
“Eochaid shall go free,” Niall promised, “when the head of Fland Dub is in my hand, and Emain Macha mine, and Ys under the sea.”
XV
1
It had become clear to the Nine and many others that Dahut would embark upon womanhood in her twelfth year. Suddenly she was gaining height and shapeliness. There was never any misproportion, outbreak in the clear skin, or loss of self-possession. While always slender, she would be more tall and robust than her mother, though equally graceful and lightfooted. The buds of her breasts were swelling toward ripeness, the curves beneath becoming rich. Golden down appeared below her arms, and under her belly formed a triangle, the figure sacred to the Goddess as the wheel was to Taranis and the spiral to Lir. She strode more than she skipped. Her voice took on a huskiness.
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