Rage reddened him the more. ‘Ah, so that’s your game, Vindilis, my pet?’ His own Ysan was easier for Gratillonius to follow, being heavily Osismianized. ‘’Twas sweet enough you were this threenight agone, and today. But inwardly – Ah, I should have known. You were ever more man than woman, Vindilis, and hex more than either.’
‘My, my lord, you rave,’ stammered Soren. ‘Be calm, I pray you, for your own sake and everyone’s.’
‘Calm – after what you said to me when yon invaders came in sight?’ Colconor’s shout was aimed past him, at a younger woman: tall, well-formed in a rangy fashion, her face recalling Minerva in its cold regularity and grey eyes. ‘You adder, you sorceress, you – you Forsquilis, trafficker with devils –’ Then she returned him a look that sent a shudder through the centurion.
‘Colconor, dear, please, please,’ begged the third woman. She was big and plump, with brown eyes and pug nose. Her manner was mild, even timid. Was she less formidable than her companions? ‘Be good.’
The Gaul gave her a leer that was half a snarl. ‘As you were good, Maldunilis? ‘Twas your tricks more than aught else that kept me belated in the Precinct. But meseems you too were conspiring my betrayal –’
He swung on Gratillonius. ‘Go, Roman!’ he roared. ‘I am the King! By the iron rod of Taranis, I’ll not take Roman orders! Go or stay; but if you stay, ’twill be on the dungheap where I’ll toss your carcass!’
Gratillonius fought for self-control. Despite Colconor’s behaviour, he was dimly surprised at his instant, lightning-sharp hatred for the man. ‘I have prior orders,’ he answered, as steadily as he could. To Soren, in Latin: ‘Sir, can’t you stay this madman so we can talk in quiet?’
Colconor understood. ‘Madman, be I?’ he shrieked. ‘Why, you were shit out of your harlot mother’s arse, where your donkey father begot you ere they gelded him. Back to your swinesty of a Rome!’
It flared in Gratillonius. His vinestaff was tucked at his saddlebow. He snatched it forth, leaned down, and gave Colconor a cut across the lips. Blood jumped from the wound.
Colconor leapt back and grabbed at his sword. The Ysan men flung themselves around him. Gratillonius heard Soren’s resonant voice: ‘Nay, not here. It must be in the Wood, the Wood.’ He sounded almost happy. The women stood aside. Maldunilis seemed shocked, though not really astonished. Forsquilis breathed what might be an incantation. Vindilis put hands on hips, threw back her head, and laughed aloud.
Eppillus stepped to his centurion’s shin, glanced up, and said anxiously, ‘Looks like a brawl, sir. We can handle it. Give the word, and we’ll make sausage meat of that bastard.’
Gratillonius shook his head. A presentiment was eldritch upon him. ‘No,’ he replied softly. ‘I think this is something I must do myself, or else lose the respect we’ll need in Ys.’
Colconor stopped struggling, left the group of men, and spat on the horse. ‘Well, will you challenge me?’ he said. ‘I’ll enjoy letting out your white blood.’
‘You’d fight me next!’ yelled Adminius. He too had been quick in picking up something of the Gallic languages.
Colconor grinned. ‘Aye, aye. The lot of you. One at a time, though. Your chieftain first. And afterwards I’ve a right to rest between bouts.’ He stared at the women. ‘I’ll spend those whiles with you three bitches, and you’ll not like it, what I’ll make you do.’ Turning, he swaggered back towards the grove.
Soren approached. ‘We are deeply sorry about this,’ he said in Latin. ‘Far better that you be received as befits the envoy of Rome.’ A smile of sorts passed through his beard. ‘Well, later you shall be. I think Taranis wearies at last of this incarnation of His, and – the King of the Wood has powers, if he chooses to exercise them, beyond those of even a Roman prefect.’
‘I am to fight Colconor, then?’ Gratillonius asked slowly.
Soren nodded. ‘In the Wood. To the death. On foot, though you may choose your weapons. There is an arsenal at the Lodge.’
‘I’m well supplied already.’ Gratillonius felt no fear. He had a task before him which he would carry out, or die; he did not expect to die.
He glanced back at the troubled faces of his men, briefly explained what was happening, and finished: ‘Keep discipline, boys. But don’t worry. We’ll still sleep in Ys tonight. Forward march!’
By now people were spilling out of the city. Three of Soren’s attendants stood in line across the road to keep them from coming farther. This combat would be a rite, not a spectacle. The other three ran ahead, passing by Colconor, to make things ready. Evidently all of them were household staff in yonder place. Since their attitude was not servile, that must be an honoured position.
The Speaker walked at Gratillonius’s left, the women at his right. Nobody talked.
It was but a few minutes to the site. A slate-flagged courtyard stood open along the road, flanked by three buildings. They were clearly ancient, long and low, of squared timbers and with shingle roofs. The two on the sides were painted black, one a stable, the other a storehouse. The third, at the end, was larger, and blood-red. It had a porch with intricately carven pillars.
In the middle of the court grew a giant oak. From the lowest of its newly leafing branches hung a brazen circular shield and a sledgehammer. Though the shield was much too big and heavy for combat, dents surrounded the boss, which showed a wildly bearded and maned human face. Behind the house, more oaks made a grove about seven hundred feet across and equally deep.
‘Behold the Sacred Precinct,’ Soren intoned. ‘Dismount, stranger, and ring your challenge.’ After a moment he added quietly, ‘We need not lose time waiting for the marines and hounds. Neither of you will flee, nor let his opponent escape.’
Gratillonius comprehended. He sprang to earth, took hold of the hammer, smote the shield with his full strength. It rang, a bass note which sent echoes flying. Mute now, Eppillus gave him his military shield and took his cloak and crest before marshalling the soldiers in a meadow across the road.
Vindilis laid a hand on Gratillonius’s arm. Never had he met so intense a gaze, out of such pallor, as from her. In a voice that shook, she whispered, ‘Avenge us, man. Set us free. Oh, rich shall be your reward.’
It came to him, like a chill from the wind that soughed among the oaks, that his coming had been awaited. Yet how could she have known?
The storehouse door crashed open and Colconor strode forth. He had outfitted himself well for a barbarian – conical nose-guarded helmet, scale coat reaching to his knees, calf-length leather boots reinforced with studs. His left hand gripped a small round shield. The longsword shone dully in his right.
‘Well, well, you’re here ‘spite of being a Roman,’ he gibed. ‘Let’s have done fast. I’ve business with yon traitor wives of mine.’
‘My lord, your demeanour is unseemly,’ Soren protested. ‘It cannot please the God.’
Colconor spat. ‘I’ve given Taranis deaths enough whilst I was King. Think you He’d want a lackey of Rome instead?’
‘Kneel.’ Soren pointed to a spot below the tree. Gratillonius and Colconor obeyed, side by side. An attendant brought water in a bowl, another a sprig of mistletoe. Soren used the herb to sign the contestants as he chanted a prayer in a language Gratillonius did not recognize at all.
Thereafter: ‘Go forth,’ said the Speaker for Taranis in Ysan, ‘and may the will of the God be done.’
Colconor led the way between the red house and the stable, in among the trees. Gratillonius followed, never looking back. Light rays struck between branches still largely bare. Shadows welled up in the farther depths of the grove. Last year’s leaves rustled underfoot, smelling of damp. Moss and fungi grew on fallen boles. A squirrel darted ruddy, like a comet foretelling war. Gratillonius heard a pig grunt – wild, sacred to whatever mystery dwelt in this place?
Near the middle of the shaw was a grassy space, narrow but clear. Colconor stopped and faced about. ‘Here I’ll kill you,’ he said in a voice gone flat.
&
nbsp; Gratillonius raised his oblong Roman shield. Javelins would be useless under these conditions, and he bore just the shortsword in his fist, the dagger at his hip. Fleetingly, he wished he had had a chance to swap his parade mail for workaday armour. He smiled bleakly at himself. This was good equipment despite the damageable ornamentation. It was with such gear that Rome’s legionaries had conquered much of the world. However, they did it in disciplined units, each a single, many-legged machine. With two men alone, the barbarian outfit was as useful, maybe better.
Mithras, he thought, I stand as a soldier, obeying my orders. Into Your hands I give my spirit.
Then at once he became entirely seized by the business before him.
The fighters circled, seeking an opening. It was always an odd feeling to Gratillonius when he looked into the eyes of an enemy. A perverse comradeship–
Colconor lunged. His sword whirred down. Gratillonius moved his shield slightly to intercept. The blow thudded loud, radiated back through handle and arm, pulled the strap hard across his shoulder, but the metal rim of the plywood stopped it. He stabbed. Colconor was skilled too. The point smote into the soft pine of the Gallic shield and stuck for an instant. Colconor twisted it while he slashed at that wrist of Gratillonius. So confined, the long blade was awkward. The centurion had time to block it with his own shield. He freed his weapon and tried for a knee. Colconor recoiled. Blood wet a ripped trouser leg, but from a minor cut.
Colconor bayed. He kept his distance, sword leaping, crashing, seeking. Gratillonius must stay on the defensive, unable to counterattack with his smaller blade. His shield did not catch every blow. Two rang on his helmet, one hit mail, one slid along a greave. They hurt.
Coldly, Gratillonius peered beyond his foeman, found what he sought, began manoeuvring. A frenzied Colconor dogged his step-by-step retreat. Gratillonius got his back against a great trunk. Colconor yelled and hewed, right, left, up, down, metal a-clang among the rising shadows. He bounced about like a wolf slashing at a bull.
Gratillonius spread his feet right-angled and tensed his knees. Abruptly he released the left. He pivoted, and Colconor nearly ran past him. Gratillonius jabbed. Colconor drew back … and now it was he who stood pinned against the tree.
Gratillonius gave him no time to work his way out of the trap, but moved in. The longsword dinned on his helmet. A shallow slash opened on his forearm. Then he was close. He feinted at the legs. Colconor lowered his shield to cover. Gratillonius drove the boss of his own straight into his enemy’s belly. Scales or no, wind whooped out of Colconor. Gratillonius brought the top edge of the shield aloft, catching Colconor beneath the chin. Bone crunched. Red ran forth. Colconor wailed.
Gratillonius saw a rare opportunity. He drove his sword upward and home. It entered at the cheek and went on. He felt bone give, and next the soft mass of the brain. That was a chancy stroke, but therefore unexpected. Blood gushed from Colconor’s mouth and nose. His face became a Gorgon’s. He crumpled and flopped. Gratillonius withdrew his sword and reinserted it beside the larynx, to complete the task.
For a while the centurion poised over the corpse. Breath went in and out of him, cool and cooling. He felt sweat chilly on his skin and smelled it, an arrogant odour. His mood was calm, though. He had done what he must– good riddance to bad rubbish – and inspection showed his wounds to be trifling.
He’d not wipe his steel on Colconor’s greasy, death-fouled clothes. Squatting, he used earth and old leaves. Meanwhile he considered what might happen. King of the Wood? That doubtless entailed duties, he didn’t know what, but seemed to bestow a certain amount of power as well. Thus a prefect who was also the monarch should be able to carry out his mission very handily.
Regarding the slain man, he realized that Ys would expect him, too, to fight future challengers, until at last one of them bested him. He shrugged. Surely he could cope while he finished his work here. Later he surely could leave. At worst, he and his men might have to cut their way out, or send for reinforcements; but he would regret that if it happened. The Ysans were probably decent people, on the whole. He’d try to do well by them.
Today he’d be busy with whatever ceremonies they held. He said a belated noontide prayer, added a word of thanks, and stooped to close the eyes below him and straighten out the body. Colconor had been brave enough to deserve that much.
As he performed the office, Gratillonius noticed anew the chain around the fallen man’s neck. Wondering at something so delicate on someone so uncouth, he gave it a tug and drew forth from under padding and mail the object it held – an iron key, longer in the shank and more intricate in the prongs than he had ordinarily seen.
A talisman? Gratillonius felt the unknown touch him, cold as the wind. With reverence he laid the key back on the breast. Rising, he sought the red house.
VII
1
When he strode into sight, his men drew blade and gave him three honest cheers. Soren led the Ysan males in genuflection. The women remained standing. Maldunilis’s soft features offered shyness, uncertainty, but from Vindilis and Forsquilis blazed an exultation terrifying in its savagery.
At once events swept Gratillonius along. Soren conducted him into the house. He saw that the columns of its portico represented a man, bearded and majestic, who bore a hammer like that which hung at the Challenge Oak, and attributes such as eagles, wild boars, and stylized thunderbolts. The name Taranis he recalled from former visits to Gallia, as well as the same image. So the Ysans had made Taranis their chief God? Gratillonius suspected matters were not that simple.
Within, the right half of the house was a feasting hall, high-raftered and gloomy, where fire licked out of trenches in a clay floor and smoke stung eyes before escaping from a hole overhead. Pillars upholding the roof formed two rows of idols, some clearly Celtic, others impossible for him to identify. Wainscot panels behind the built-in benches along the walls seemed to depict heroic tales. Banners hung from the crossbeams, sooted and frayed with age. Magnificence so rude must have stayed in use because ancientness made it holy. ‘Is this the temple of the God?’
Soren shook his head. ‘No, Taranis has a splendid marble fane in the city, and many lesser shrines. This is the House of the King, also known as the Red Lodge. Once he was required to live here always, with each Queen spending a night in turn. But for centuries, now, it has only been during full moon, and he summons those wives or other persons whom he will.’ He paused before adding, grimly matter-of fact: ‘Of course, wherever he may be, he must come back when a challenger strikes the Shield. The resident staff dispatches a messenger.’
Again a prickling went through Gratillonius’s skin. Colconor could have left at dawn today for the comforts and pleasures of town. In that event, the Romans would have entered Ys directly, and might well have settled matters with the city magistrates before even meeting the King, who would most likely have decided to accept what he could not easily or safely change. Instead, though, three of his – wives? – had kept him carousing, and at the same time piqued him, as subtly and cruelly as a bullfighter, until he stormed forth when he saw the newcomers and, in besotted fury, forced the quarrel that ended in his death.
And just how had he done so? Gratillonius knew himself for a short-tempered man, and the insults he suffered were unforgivable. Yet he was a legionary officer on duty. For the sake of Rome, he should have armoured his pride in dignity and merely returned contempt – not plunged headlong into action of whose consequences he had no idea. What demon had entered him?
A burning log cracked. Flames and sparks leapt high. Shadows moved monstrous in dimly lit corners, and it was as if a rustling went through the blackened banners overhead.
Gratillonius ran tongue over lips. ‘You must understand, Priest Soren –’
‘No, my lord, I am simply the Speaker.’ The interruption was bluff but not discourteous. ‘I serve Taranis by leading certain rites and by helping govern the worldly affairs of His temple. Otherwise I am a Councillor of the Suffet
es and the director of a Great House – an industry. You, sir, are the ordained one, high priest and, in a sense, Incarnation.’
‘You must understand,’ Gratillonius persisted, ‘that I am a Roman citizen in the service of the state. I am also a votary of the God Mithras. Never ask me to compromise my conscience about either of these things.’
He could not be sure, in the dusk, whether Soren showed a flicker of unease. The man did reply steadily: ‘I do not believe we need fear that. If I am not mistaken, Mithraists may and do honour other Gods. For the most part, a King does as he will. Apart from meeting his challenges – and I would not expect any to you for a long while, my lord – apart from that, a King’s reign is very much what he himself makes it. Ys is old. Through the hundreds of years it has seen many different kinds of men on its throne, Romans among them. But come, please.’
The second half of the Lodge was divided into smaller rooms. These had been modernized, with glass windows, tile floors, frescoed plaster, hypocaust heating. Furniture was comfortable. It included a remarkable number of chairs, with arms and backs. Gratillonius remarked on that and was told that such seats were common in Ys, and not confined to the rich, either.
There was no space for a full-panoply bath, but a large sunken basin had been filled for him. Servants helped him out of his armour and undergarments. He sank gratefully into hot, scented water. His encounter had strained him more than he realized, and Mithras knew what would come next. He needed a rest.
Emerging, he had his injuries poulticed; just the cut on his arm received a precautionary bandage. Thereafter he enjoyed a skilled massage, was anointed, was guided to a chamber where new raiment lay. Resembling Soren’s but more sumptuously worked, the robe fitted him well, as did the soft shoes. He supposed the house kept several wardrobes in different sizes. His pectoral was a gold sunburst, hung from a massive chain and set with pearls and rubies. However, instead of a staff he would bear a full-sized sledgehammer, whose oaken haft and rounded iron head were dark with antiquity. True to his religious vows, he declined the laurel wreath offered him.
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