Lady of the Light

by Donna Gillespie

  Drunk on strong reveries, Avenahar didn’t hear her mother at first.

  “Avenahar . . . Avenahar! Turn round. You’ve hurt yourself.”

  “I don’t think so, Mother.” Then Avenahar saw the viscerally bright droplet on the gray moss beneath her feet, so brazenly red, teeming with invisible life. Her mother was right. Avenahar looked, baffled, at her unblemished hands, her unscuffed knees. Then she was alert to something strange—a grave and important feeling right down through the center of her, a dull, nudging heaviness in her loins, a bruising pain that seemed to drag her toward the earth. It was a sense like no other, bearing hazed but powerful promises of the pleasures, the vulnerability, a woman’s body could know.

  “Mother, I think—” Avenahar said, patting her clothes. “I’m not hurt . . . It’s . . .” She was quiet, sensing ancestresses flocking about like unseen doves. The blood-that-carries-souls was their portal back into the world.

  “By Fria’s love,” she heard Auriane whisper. “It has come.”

  Avenahar felt a bolt of fright. Blood is there at the beginning, blood is there at the end. She hugged close to childhood, unready to step away from her mother’s encompassing shadow.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Avenahar, this is good . . . The blood of generations is the means by which you will carry us on, by which we shall not die. Close your eyes.”

  Avenahar complied, pleased by all this favor and attention. She felt her mother trace on her forehead the runic sign of protection, followed by the sign for strength. Auriane then chanted a quick, quiet prayer to the goddess Hel that made Avenahar feel wrapped in a warm, soft blanket: “Beautiful one, moving underground, see this daughter who walks with the Sun . . . Let flow from Avenahar all the fruits of the Mother-line. Be gentle with her and take her blood.”

  Auriane pulled Avenahar onto a path that descended to the Mosella. “Come this way. You’ll wash in the river.”

  “Now my initiation must take place within the season,” Avenahar said, giving a rabbit-leap of joy. “We’re going home!”

  “Well, for a short time, yes. We’ve much to do, we’ll have to begin readying ourselves for the trip to the Holy Wood. You’ll need to finish weaving your womanhood cloak.” The grove known as the Holy Wood lay just within Chattian lands, a half-day’s ride beyond the Limes—the Roman frontier. Avenahar had known all her life that when the blood of generations came she must be initiated on her home ground, in the presence of nine “Mothers,” or elderwomen—as it had always been done. Auriane had already laid the initial plans. Because Auriane must be present, too, and a seven-year-old Palace decree barred Auriane from returning to her country, Marcus had called upon the aid of a man much in his debt, Maximus, governor at Mogontiacum, whose jurisdiction they must pass through to enter her lands. When the time came, Maximus had agreed to arrange a covert mother-and-daughter expedition across the frontier. They would remain in Chattian country no more than the nine nights required by the ceremony.

  After a time, Avenahar ventured, “Mother, his blood is in me, too.”

  “Your true father. Of course it is.”

  Avenahar didn’t like what she saw in her mother’s face then. There was a good tension there sometimes, denoting a soul powerfully trained upon one thing, as when her mother entered a practice arena. And there was this tension, full of thoughts of ill, turned back upon herself. So Avenahar didn’t press, saying only, “Soon, I’ll hear who he is.” He’ll be an honorable man who’s fought for our freedom, Avenahar thought, buoyed by the amulet on her breast.

  “Yes,” Auriane replied. “And I hope you hear it as a woman, not as a child.”

  Before them then was the glassy surface of the Mosella, still as black marble. But it isn’t still, Auriane found herself thinking—the current is there, powerful and invisible. And it ever seeks the Mother River. She thought, then, of how the world’s deceptively calm surface was crisscrossed with such strong, unseen currents—one of which tugged relentlessly at her, striving to drag her back toward her sacred groves.

  A wild swan, cloud white, more spirit than bird, skimmed low over the black water before it disappeared into the profundity of the ground mist that hung on the air like ritual incense, leaving the Mosella’s far bank a holy mystery. A merchant vessel laden with wine barrels bound north startled them as it materialized in near-silence from the fog, its single bank of twenty-two oars flashing out in powerful unison, its dragon-headed prow cutting the water with surprising speed as it moved with the river’s muscular flow.

  “I’m not sure I like this, Mother,” Avenahar said as she bent at the bank to unlace her sandals. “Now, at the moon, I’ll have something to hide. And what if it starts at a hunt?”

  Avenahar was surprised by the look of affront she saw in her mother’s eyes.

  “Someone’s been passing you counterfeit coin, Avenahar. To have the blood of generations . . . it’s greater than the hunt.”

  “But—why, then, does Brico say . . . I once heard Brico say the blood of generations can curse a river, that it can cause a river to grow horns, and flood its banks. She says it can stunt a crop. Or keep a cow from giving milk.”

  “Look at me, Avenahar. You will push what Brico says from your mind.”

  “All right. But why are you so angry?”

  Auriane’s face softened at once. Avenahar saw only anxious sadness there now.

  “Because she teaches you . . . shame. Avenahar, Brico is full of the ways of iron. When you go home, you’ll find something else, the older way, the beautiful way. Know this that I am telling you now, and don’t ever forget it—your blood will bless the river.”

  Chapter 6

  The first of Maius had come. The population of the Roman river-town of Confluentes was swollen to twice its usual size, for these were the days of the rites of Floralia. As the Fire Festival of the Treverans, the Celtic tribe who farmed these hills before Rome claimed them, fell on roughly the same calendar days as the rites of the Roman goddess Flora with her feasts on the green and bawdy games, Confluentes’s spring celebration fused Roman and native custom; the result was a provincial hybrid that roused passions to a pitch of gaiety that might not have been achieved by either festival alone. Wine of pale gold from the steep slopes along the Mosella was rolled in barrels down the cobbled streets and dispensed at every street crossing until it flooded into the town’s gutters, where it carried along petals of crushed wildflowers. Revelers carried torches in the light of day, in homage to the colors that Flora, Queen of the Flowers, brought to the countryside. Children scattered beans and lupins on the ground—plants that encouraged nature’s increase. Bonfires on the high places would keep the countryside illumined into the night, while native farmers ringed about them and offered cakes to the powerful numen of spring. The women of the Basketmakers’ Guild wove garlands and gave them out on the steps of the temples. Games progressed outside the town walls—footraces, wrestling matches, and horse races. Since Flora was also a goddess of gardens, and the small game that haunted them were her beloved creatures, maids played at netting hares, or hunting the dormice that scuttled among the grape vines. The townsfolk donned clay masks with beast-faces, linked hands, and danced from fire to fire or feasted in the fields, while young men and women, arms entwined about a hastily chosen lover, ran off to perform the most ancient of rites in the wild precincts of the forest.

  Many in the throng of citizens and slaves had massed along the post road, for news had flown from town forum to field that Marcus Julianus’s carriages would be passing by the town this day, as he returned from the meetings of the Consilium. A glimpse of a man such as this provided a rare distraction in this tiny tributary of Empire; the old nobility of Rome normally kept a primary residence far nearer the world’s center. The sole important personage to whom local folk were accustomed was the magistrate Volusius Victorinus, who, though rich in land, was still one of them. They knew of the hair he’d lost from years of applying overheated curling tongs; they traded jests about hi
s wife Decimina’s badly fitting ivory false teeth. Marcus Julianus, by contrast, dwelled high and remote behind his estate’s miles of thorn hedges, living a life steeped in esoteric philosophy and the mysteries of grand decisions of state. The lingering tale that Julianus was the conspirator-in-shadow who orchestrated the assassination of the tyrannical Domitian added a dark luminosity to his name; few among them could gaze on such a man without hearing silent flutes and drums.

  Victorinus observed the festivities from one of the twin towers that flanked Confluentes’s main gate. He was garbed in a flowing linen festival tunic in shades of russet and melon, with a woolen scarf knotted at his throat against the stone chamber’s chill. This vantage afforded an excellent view of the town wall’s rampart walk and the paved overland road. Victorinus was the festival’s sponsor this year, having donated the money for the musicians, the prizes for the athletes, and the boar feast. He sat close by the unshuttered window so the grateful people could hail him from below, passing the time playing a board game called “Robbers” with the decurion of his bodyguard. As the magistrate advanced one of his crystal soldiers to the next marble square, the game was bluntly interrupted by one of the freedmen clerks of his court, a Treveran giant named Cobnertus. A festival wreath held the clerk’s crudely chopped blond locks in place as Cobnertus curled himself into a “C” to accommodate himself to the guard chamber’s ceiling. His leek-green tunic was too small for him, stretched almost to tearing across a barrel chest. The room was suddenly crowded as he filled it with the eager hopefulness of a clumsy, tail-wagging hound.

  “My lord Victorinus, I beg a moment. We’ve just caught a man posing as a priest of Flora at the little temple by the river. Old Lallus, who’s supposed to be there, is laid out with bog fever, so this trickster slipped in. He might not’ve been found out except he was caught palming the coppers the pious townfolk were tossing in as offerings, and I’ve hurried to tell you—”

  Victorinus’s gaze remained moodily attached to his crystal game piece, which had, judging from the decurion’s alert expression, landed in a dangerous place. “Why are you nettling me with this today? If he’s a slave stow him in the slaves’ prison until we learn who his master is. If he’s a local man without the citizenship, hold him and we’ll have him lashed, after the festival’s done—”

  “But—”

  “—Twenty lashes. That’s my verdict. If he’s got proof of citizenship, mark him down on the list of citizen offenders and imprison him until I can study his case.”

  “But my lord, the man’s one of the deserters from the naval ship Concordia—you know, the ones who murdered their captain!”

  That, at least, caused Victorinus to look up from his game.

  “You’ve done well, then, Cobnertus. Lock him up until the next court day; I’ll examine him then. You’ve earned your leisure, good man! Off with you, you’re insulting me. I paid a lot for this festival. Find yourself a ripe maid not your wife, have a good draught of our golden nectar, and scamper out into the forest and do us all some good. And leave me in peace to win this game.”

  The decurion gave a polite but irritated grunt. He was the one who was winning.

  “But I’ve not told you the most amazing part of it,” Cobnertus pressed on gamely. “This Lurio, that’s his name, has an amazing tale to tell. He—”

  “Don’t flog that word to death. Must you stand there? You’re broad as a bullock and the youths’ footraces are set to start.”

  Cobnertus hauled himself aside with one overly accommodating sideways step.

  “But my lord Victorinus, this Lurio claims to have uncovered the identity of the famous malefactor who’s been smuggling the money-for-arms to the Chattian savages. And the person he accuses, the name will am—will greatly surprise you.”

  Victorinus gave Cobnertus a look that caused the clerk to recoil into wounded innocence.

  “Bees in the hives don’t work harder than you, Cobnertus, but an ox has more wit. Did you not detect in this man’s story a ruse to evade punishment? He’s a murderer. He’s bargaining for his life. There’s as much likelihood he has useful information on this notorious matter of state as there is that your wife is waiting patiently at home for you right now. Don’t look so dejected. Give your report to Cletussto there”—he gestured toward one of the solemn secretaries standing by the wall—“and I’ll review it when I have time. Now show some merriment, my man!”

  Soon after, word was carried to the town that four redas bearing the family emblem of Marcus Arrius Julianus—a shield embossed with an image of Minerva—had been sighted passing the First Milestone. More revelers abandoned their feasts and began to surge toward the road.

  Almost invisible in this crowd of masked and drunken townsfolk was a young man in a heavy travelling cloak, who hugged the shadows beneath one of the gate towers. His cloak was the same color as the masonry. Its hood was drawn forward. He might have been a bat clinging to the wall, shunning light and human company, as, with growing intensity, he kept his gaze on the stretch of road before him, down which Marcus Julianus’s carriages must pass. He emptied his mind as he readied himself for the fearsome task ahead. High above him twenty men of Victorinus’s municipal guard were posted, but as the tower’s turreted top projected slightly from the base, they could not see him.

  Now the throng discerned a line of carriages emerging from the mist, each drawn by two horses hitched abreast, moving at a brisk trot. Spare horses were tied behind each; footmen ran alongside. As they came within a quarter mile of the town’s gate the people began to hinder the procession’s progress, frustrating the drivers, who had been ordered to refrain from using their whips. Several jogged alongside a black-curtained, gold-embossed carriage, third in line and most distinguished in appearance. They shouted at Julianus and attempted to thrust petitions inside while its driver cursed and threatened them with the butt of his whip.

  As the four carriages moved at a smart trot beneath Victorinus’s tower, both magistrate and guards’ decurion paused in their game and rose to watch.

  They were just in time to witness a sight from a draught-laced dream. As Julianus’s carriage passed beneath the elm grove that shaded the small temple of Mars, a torch-bearing man wrestled his way through the press of people, and briefly jog-trotted alongside it. He tossed something that looked like three small, smooth stones onto the roof of the carriage, where they broke, proving liquid inside. Immediately after, he threw the torch. Flames bloomed up with startling vigor and brilliance. Instantly they devoured the black curtains. With astonishing swiftness they spread over the wooden frame, engulfing the whole of the carriage—a carriage no longer, but a torch of Hephaestus. The blue-tinged flames were crazily strong, roiling with unnatural fury. The sight was ghastly, impossible—a testy Jupiter might have singled out this particular carriage for a thunderbolt. The horses’ frenzied thrashings cracked the carriage’s shaft-pole as the beasts fought to escape the ferocious heat. Evil-looking smoke spiraled through the elms.

  For long moments the throng was unnaturally still, not certain what they were seeing as the flames rushed skyward in a great gust.

  Within that inferno, nothing could be alive.

  One strident cry rose above the others: “They’ve murdered him!” A great section of the crowd shifted toward the town’s wall for safety, moving as one, like a startled flock of sheep.

  Victorinus ordered the trumpeter on the wall to blow a blast, to alert his guards, stationed below. Then he cried out a command to clear everyone away from the flaming carriage. His guards’ decurion bolted down the tower’s stairs to take charge of his men, while shouting back at Victorinus, “It’s Greek fire! Water won’t quench it. They must find vinegar!”

  Victorinus dispatched a boy attendant to toll the bell that ordered out the town’s bucketmen, then turned his attention to the chaotic scene below, scanning the throng for a fleeing assailant. He knew he must be seen to be responding quickly, if he meant to avoid a popular accusation that he�
��d done too little to apprehend Julianus’s murderer. Only later would he give himself leave to rejoice. In the nether regions of his mind, however, wheels were already starting to turn:

  It seems the closeted, pampered Arria Juliana has no protector now . . . Perhaps I should apply to be her guardian.

  A lone runner separated from the crowd. Victorinus was jolted by the sight of the man’s face—black as burnt wood, with great, staring eyes—then realized the fellow had smeared his face with lampblack. He yelped, pointing out the man to the guards below—and now, a dozen townsmen and guards were giving spirited chase, pursuing the assailant into an abandoned flax field that lay south of the Mogontiacum road.

  Victorinus’s son, Lucius, lurched up the tower stairs then, wailing a tavern song, his face sweaty and flushed. Clamped to his side by one lean, sinewy arm was a frightened-looking Treveran maid.

  “Father, you surprise me,” he called out merrily to Victorinus, who was leaning from the tower’s window, urging on the pursuers with a balled fist. “Your justice is swift as Jupiter’s.”

  Victorinus pulled himself back inside. “Shut your mouth, you impudent young cock. This is not my doing, and I forbid you to even think it. I keep within the law. Speak so to anyone and you’ll not see a sesterce of your patrimony.”

  “I apologize, then, Father. What’s this elixir that created such a fearsome fire?”

  “A thing that’s forbidden, except on war vessels. It’s a mix of naphtha harvested from the ground, laced with quicklime and sulfur. It’s packed into a clay vessel. It must have a fire within it, for flames have a passionate love of it. Poor Marcus Julianus—he has a much more dedicated enemy out there than I ever was.” He added to himself, “Someone with knowledge of ships, and of naval warfare. . . .”