She shook her head. “They only say the Gods apportion our dooms. ’Tis not what I meant. Father, sometimes the dead come back. They are born anew so they can—watch over us—But what happens to them when they die again?”
He called to mind eerie rumors that had reached him over the years. Chill shot along his back and out to his fingertips. “That seal who comes to you—”
“She died. A beast killed her.”
“How do you know?” he mumbled.
“She knew. She told me. I think the Gods saw that—if she stayed—she’d keep me from—from—I know not what, from something They may want of me—Oh, father, where is she now?”
Dahut cast herself back into the arms of Gratillonius. The tears broke loose. She clawed against him and screamed.
He gripped her and endured.
At length, still an animal hurt and terrified, gone to earth in his bosom, at length she could plead, “Help me, father. Leave me not. Be with me always.”
“I will,… daughter of Dahilis.” He dared inquire no further. Belike he never would, nor she say any more. Yet he felt within himself the strength he had reached for.
“Promise!”
“I do.” Gratillonius looked above her tousled head. The sun must have gone under, for hues had drained from the fog and twilight was rapidly thickening. Wind cut through, though, and he spied the battlements of the Raven Tower clear against uneasy heaven, afire with the last radiance of the Unconquered. In a crypt beneath lay his holy of holies. The strength rose higher, defiant of the cruel Gods of Ys.
“I promise,” he said. “I will never forsake you, Dahut, beloved, never deny you. By Mithras I swear.”
They sought home together.
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I
1
Day came to birth above eastern hills and streamed down the valley. It flamed off the towers of Ys, making them stand like candles against what deepness lingered in western blue. Air lay cool, still, little hazed. The world beneath it was full of dew and long shadows.
This was the feast of Lug. Here they also kept the old holy times, but the great ones of the city called then on its own Gods. A male procession, red-robed, the leader bearing a hammer, mounted the wall at High Gate. They lifted their hands and sang.
“Your sun ascends in splendor
The brilliance of Your sky
To light the harvest landscape
Your rains did fructify.
These riches and this respite
From winter, war, and night,
Taranis of the Thunders,
Were won us through Your might!
“You guard the walls of heaven,
Earth’s Lover, Father, King.
You are the sacrificer,
You are the offering.
The years wheel ever onward
Beyond our human ken.
Bestow Your strength upon us
That we may die like men.”
Behind them, where the Temple of Belisama shone on its height, female voices soared from Elven Gardens.
“Lady of love and life,
Lady of death and strife,
Maiden and wedded wife,
And old in sorrow,
Turn unto us Your face,
Grant us a dwelling place
In Your abiding grace,
Now and tomorrow!
“You are the Unity:
Girl running wild and free,
Hag brooding mystery,
And the All-Mother.
Evermore born again,
You, Belisama, reign,
Over our joy and pain
As does no other.
“You by Whom all things live,
Though they be fugitive,
Thank You for that You give
Years to us mortals.
Goddess of womankind,
Guide us until we find
Shelter and peace behind
Darkness’s portals.”
Ebb had barely begun and the sea gate of Ys remained shut. Nevertheless a ship was outward bound. Eager to be off while good weather held, her captain had had her towed forth by moonlight and had lain at anchor waiting for dawn. Mainsail and artemon unfurled, her forefoot hissed through the waves. He went into the bows, killed a black cock, sprinkled blood on the stempost, cast the victim overboard, held out his arms, and chanted.
“Tide and wind stand fair for our course, but we remember that the set of them is often to a lee shore;
“We remember that gales whelm proud fleets and reefs wait always to rip them asunder;
“We remember how men have gone down to the eels or have strewn their bones white on the skerries;
“We remember weariness, hunger, thirst, the rotting of live flesh and teeth loosened from jaws;
“We remember the shark and the ice, and the albatross lonely above desolation;
“We remember the blinding fog and the terrible sea-blink in dead calm:
“For these too are of Lir. His will be done.”
The King of Ys, Incarnation and high priest of Taranis, was not in the city, for this was not so momentous a day as to release him from the Watch he must keep when the moon was full. With a handful of fellow worshippers he stood in the courtyard of the Sacred Precinct, by the Challenge Oak, looking toward the sun and calling, “Hail, Mithras Unconquered, Savior, Warrior, Lord, born unto us anew and forever—” The silence in the Wood muffled it.
At the Forum, the heart of Ys, in the church that had once been a fane of Mars, Christians almost as few held a service. Nobody outside heard their song, tiny and triumphant.
2
Rain slashed from the west. Wind hooted. Autumn was closing in, with storms and long nights. If men did not soon take ship for Ériu, they would risk being weatherbound in Britannia until—Manandan maqq Leri knew when.
Two men sat in a tavern in Maia. That was a Roman settlement just south and west of the Wall, on the firth. Roughly clad, the pair drew scant heed from others at drink, albeit one was uncommonly large and handsome, his fair hair and beard not much silvered. Plain to see, they were Scotic. However, they kept to themselves and this was not an inn where people asked questions. Besides, the tiny garrison was in quarters; and barbarians went freely about, Scoti, Picti, occasional Saxons. Some were mercenaries recruited by Rome, or scouts or spies or informers. Some were traders, who doubtless did more smuggling than open exchange. It mattered not, provided they got into nothing worse than brawls. The Imperial expeditionary force had enough to do without patrolling every impoverished huddling place.
A tallow candle guttered and stank on the table between the two Scoti. Its light and the light of its kind elsewhere were forlorn, sundered by glooms like stars on a cloudy night. Niall of the Nine Hostages gripped a cup of ale such as he would not have ordered pigs swilled with at home, were a king allowed to own them. Leaning forward, elbows on the greasy, splintery wood, he asked low, “You are quite sure of this, are you, now?”
Uail maqq Carbri nodded. “I am that, my lord,” he answered in the same undertone. Most likely none else would have understood their language, but no sense in taking needless chances. “I’ll be telling the whole tale later, my wanderings and all, first in this guise, next in that, ever the amusing newcomer who commanded a rustic sort of Latin—”
“You will, when we’ve time and safety,” Niall interrupted. “Tonight be short about it. Here is a damnable spot to be meeting.”
It had been the best they could do. Niall, waging war, landing where he saw it would be possible and striking inland as far and savagely as would leave him a line of retreat, Niall could no more foresee where he would camp than could peacefully, inquisitively ranging Uail. Maia was a fixed point, not closely under the Roman eye; men of Condacht and Mide had bespoken this tavern in the past; they could agree to be there at the half moon after equinox. Nonetheless Uail had had to abide two evenings until Niall, delayed by weather, arrived.
Uail shrugged. “As my lord wills. No men I sounded out, officers or common soldiers, none of them had any word from on high. We wouldn’t await that, would we, now? But somehow they were all sure. The word has seeped through. Rome will fight one more season, hoping to have Britannia cleared of the likes of us by then. But no longer. Nor is there any thought of striking at Ériu. They will be needing the troops too badly across the Channel.”
Niall nodded. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “I looked for the same. It sings together with what I learned myself, raiding them this year. They were never determined in pursuit when we withdrew. They’ve not moved against Dál Riata, nest of hawks though it is. We took in deserters, who told us they had no wish to fare off to an unknown battle away in Europe. Oh, it’s clear, it’s clear, we have nothing to fret about in our homeland from Rome.”
“That is good to know, well worth the trouble of finding out.”
Niall’s fist thudded down on the board. His voice roughened. “I should have been aware already. I should never have havered like this, letting years slip by—” Abruptly he rose. His mane brushed the ceiling. “Come, Uail. Toss off that horse piss if you must and let’s begone.”
The mariner gaped. “What? It’s a wild night out.”
“And I’m wild to be off. The fleet lies on the north side of the firth, in a eove where no Roman comes any longer, two days’ walk for us from here. If we start at once, we can pass Luguvallium in the dark.”
“That would be wise,” Uail agreed. Yonder city was the western strongpoint of the Wall. Both men took their cloaks and trod forth.
The rain was not too cold nor the night too black for such as they. Kilts wrapped them from shoulder to knee; at their belts hung dirks, and pouches with a bit of dried meat and cheese; once they were beyond the Roman outposts, no one would venture to question them.
They had walked a while when Niall said in a burst: “I have need of haste, Uail maqq Carbri. I hear time baying behind me, a pack of hounds that has winded the wolf. Too long have I waited. There is Emain Macha to bring down, and afterward Ys.”
3
Among Celts, the first evening of Hunter’s Moon awakened madness. In Ys, folk no longer believed that the doors between worlds stood open then—if only because in Ys, they were never quite shut—but farmers and gardeners made sure their last harvests had been gathered, while herdsmen brought their beasts under roofs and seamen lashed a besom to every craft not in a boathouse. Within the city, it was an occasion for unbridled revel.
Weather permitting, the Fire Fountain played. Masked, grotesquely costumed—stag, horse, goat, goblin, leather phallus wagging gigantic; nymph, witch, mermaid, hair flying loose, breasts bared and painted—the young cavorted drunken through the streets. Workers of every kind were off duty, and none need do reverence to lord or lady. The older and higher-born watched the spectacle for a time, perhaps, before withdrawing to entertainments they had prepared for themselves behind their own walls. Those might or might not be decorous. Drink flowed, music taunted, and no encounter between man and woman, whomever they might be wedded to, was reckoned entirely real.
Certain classes observed restraint. The King kept Watch in the Wood as usual. Such of the Gallicenae ashore as were not with him held a banquet, and gave a prayer for the ninth out on Sena. Down in Scot’s Landing, the Ferriers of the Dead bolted their cottage doors and their families practiced rites that were austere; these were too close to the unknown for aught else.
Yet all, all was pagan.
Corentinus left the torchlight and tumult behind him. He had offered a Mass and sent his congregation to bed. Now he was alone.
Out Northbridge Gate he went, and up Redonian Way across Point Vanis. His long legs crunched the distance. Save for him, road and headland reached empty. This night was clear, quiet, and cold. Stars glimmered manifold before him, Hercules, the Dragon, Cassiopeia, at the end of the Lesser Bear the Lodestar. The Milky Way was dimmed by the high-riding moon and its frost halo. His breath gusted white. Grass, brush, stones lay hoar.
Where the road bent east above the former maritime station, Corentinus left it and made his way west. Soon he came to an outlook over the sea, vast and dark and slowly breathing. A grave was at his feet. He knew the headstone. The one who rested here was no Christian, but had been an honest soldier. This did not seem the worst possible place to stop.
Corentinus lifted his arms and his gray head skyward. “O God,” he called in anguish, “Maker and Master of the Universe; Christ Jesus, only begotten Son, God and man together, Who died for us and rose again that we might live; Holy Spirit—have mercy on poor Ys. Leave it not in its midnight. Leave it not with its demons that it worships. They mean well, God. They are not evil. They are only blind, and in the power of Satan. My dearest wish is to help them. Help me, God!”
After a silence, he bent his neck and bit his lip. “But if they are not worthy of a miracle,” he groaned, “if there can be no redemption, and the abomination must be cleansed as it was in Babylon—let it be quickly, God, let it be final, and the well-meaning people and the little children not be enslaved or burnt alive, but go down at once to whatever awaits them.
“Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”
II
1
The declaration of King Gratillonius hit the vernal Council of Suffetes like a stone from a siege engine. As prefect of Rome, he told them, he had lately received official word of that which he had been awaiting. The augmented legions in Britannia would take the field again this year, but only for a month or two. Thereafter they would return to the Continent and march south. Anticipating renewed barbarian incursions, mounting in scope and ferocity as time went on, Gratillonius wanted the shipyard of Ys to produce more naval vessels. Yet those would not become Ysan. That would be too provocative. Instead, he would offer them to the Duke of the Armorican Tract, to go under the command of the latter. Their crews would train Roman recruits to man them.
Outrage erupted. Hannon Baltisi, Lir Captain, roared that never would men of Ys serve under such masters, Christian dogs who would forbid their worship, who did not even ask the God’s pardon before emptying a slop jar into His sea. Cothortin Rosmertai, Lord of Works, protested that such a program would disrupt plans, dishonor commitments to build merchantmen; in this time of prosperity, the facilities were bespoken far in advance. Bomatin Kusuri, Mariner Councillor, questioned where enough sailors could be found, when trading, whaling, slaving, even fishing paid better than armed service in the Empire did.
Adruval Tyri, Sea Lord, maintained that the King was right about the menace of Scoti and Saxons. They would not be content to rape Britannia but would seek back to the coasts of Gallia. Yet Adruval hated the thought of turning Ysan ships over to Rome. What did Rome do for Armorica other than suck it dry? Would it not be better to build strength at home—quietly, of course—until Ys could tell Rome to do its worst?
Soren Cartagi, Speaker for Taranis, was also a voice for the Great Houses when he said, first, that to help the Christians thus was to speed the day when they came to impose their God by force; second, the cost would be more than the city could bear or the people would suffer; third, Gratillonius must remember that he was the King of a sovereign nation, not the proconsul of a servile province.
Queen Lanarvilis, who at this session was the leader of the Gallicenae, pointed out needs at home which the treasure and labor could serve. And was there indeed any threat in the future with which existing forces could not cope, as they had coped in the past? Had not the Romans now quelled their enemies and secured Britannia? Also in the South, she understood, peace prevailed; Stilicho and Alaric the Visigoth had ended their strife and come to terms. Rather than looking ahead with fear, she saw a sun of hopefulness rising.
Opposition to Gratillonius’s desire coalesced around those two persons. When the meeting adjourned after stormy hours, he drew them aside and asked that they accompany him to the palace for a confidential talk.
Soren and Lanarvilis exchanged a look. “Nay,” the man growled. “Well seek straight to the secretorium and… marshal our thoughts.”
“Debate grew too heated,” the woman added in haste. “You’ve brought us hither that we may reason with one another, not so? Let us therefore make sure of our intents.”
Gratillonius regarded them for a silent moment. Tall she stood in her blue gown and white headdress, but her haunches seemed heavier of late, while her shoulders were hunched above a shrunken bosom. That brought her neck forward like a turtle’s; the green eyes blinked and peered out of sallowness which sagged. He knew how faded her blond hair was. Withal, she had lost little vigor and none of her grasp of events.
Soren had put on much weight in the last few years; his belly strained the red robe and distorted its gold embroidery. The chest on which the Wheel amulet hung remained massive. His hair and beard were full of gray; having taken off his miter, he displayed a bald spot. Yet he was no less formidable than erstwhile.
Sadness tugged at Gratillonius. “As you will,” he said. “I’ll have refreshments sent up, and order us a supper. We do have need to stay friends.”
—When he opened the door of the upstairs room, he saw them in facing chairs, knee against knee, hands linked. Taken by surprise, they started and drew apart. He pretended he had not noticed. “Well,” he said, “I’m ready for a stoup of that wine. Council-wrangling is thirsty work.” He strode to the serving table, mixed himself a strong beakerful, and took a draught before turning about to confront them.
Soren’s broad countenance was helmeted with defiance. Lanarvilis sat still, hands now crossed in her lap, but Gratillonius had learned over the years to read distress when it lay beneath her face.
He stayed on his feet, merely because in spite of the hot bath he felt too taut for anything else. The light of candles threw multiple shadows to make him stand forth, for dusk filled the window of the chamber and dimmed the pastoral frescoes, as if to deny that such peacefulness was real.
Gallicenae Page 34