Roma Mater

by Poul Anderson

  2

  Dahilis wished to visit the Nymphaeum and seek a special blessing upon her unborn child. To her delight, Gratillonius said he would come along. The distance was less than ten miles, so no servants or provisions were needed, other than a basket of food for a light midday meal. He did take three of his legionaries, explaining that, while there was nothing to fear, they maintained the royal dignity. Dahilis laughed and clapped her hands in glee. She had long hoped to know the Romans better, her husband’s trusty men. These were Maclavius, Verica, and Cynan.

  On horseback, the five of them went out of High Gate. Beyond the smithies, tanneries, and other clangourous or malodorous industries forbidden within town, they turned off paved Aquilonian Way on to a path running due east along the middle of the valley, beside the canal. This cut through the southern edge of the Wood of the King. Though the day was glorious and the leafage all green and gold, Dahilis shivered in the shadows of the oaks and reached to take Gratillonius’s hand. She recovered her merriment as soon as they were again in the open.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she exclaimed. ‘Aren’t the Three good and kind, that They made this for us?’ She gestured around. Beneath a vault of light where a few clouds wandered and many wings beat, the valley sides lifted intensely verdant. Pastures were starred with wildflowers. Orchards stood rich near farmhouses thatched, earth-walled, but snug and neatly whitewashed. Groves and gardens framed mansions – red-tiled, tawny-plastered, glass agleam – on the heights. Dwellings of lesser size and luxury but in the same pattern, wide-strewn over the slopes, radiated a sense of well-being. A breeze lulled warm, bearing odours of blossom, growth, soil. Canal water glittered and chuckled above its bed of fitted stones, between its narrow banks where moss made softness; frogs leapt, dragonflies hovered lightning-blue. High and high overhead, a lark carolled.

  Gratillonius smiled on her. ‘No doubt,’ he answered, ‘but it suffers by comparison with you.’ Indeed she was lovely. Her head was bare and she had not piled her hair in the elaborate coiffure of a noblewoman but let it flow free, like a maiden’s or a commoner bride’s, past the pert features and down her back, as yellow as the loosestrife nodding in the grass. A gown of silver-worked samite was belted close around a slenderness which the life within had, thus far, not changed. Skirts hiked up for riding astride, her legs might have been turned on the lathe of a master craftsman who was also a Praxiteles, save that they seemed about to start dancing. How tiny were her sandals!

  ‘Oh, my,’ she laughed, ‘you’re becoming quite the courtier, darling. Beware lest you lose your proper Roman bluntness.’

  The path climbed leisurely, leaving homes behind and passing through rail-fenced meadows where cattle grazed. Ysan territory held scant ploughland; the city got its grain from the Osismii. An occasional boy or girl dashed to gape at and hail these remarkable passers-by, the big man in his fine tunic and breeches, the three in flashing metal, the fair lady. Dogs clamoured. Dahilis waved and warbled greetings.

  They stopped in a shady place to eat and rest. Dahilis served forth the bread, butter, pickled fish, hard-boiled eggs, wine. Cynan shook his head, walked off, stood gazing into the distance. ‘Isn’t he well?’ the Queen asked, concerned.

  ‘He practises certain austerities before a religious rite,’ Gratillonius replied.

  ‘Oh.’ She shied from the subject. Verica and Maclavius were nothing loth to entertain her. Seeing that she winced at mention of war, they talked instead about their Britannic homelands. Her eyes grew still more huge. ‘I do hope we can go there someday, Gratillonius, beloved, you and I – to your country.’ The centurion refrained from saying how unlikely that was, or how risky and wretched.

  The unguarded frontier was not far when path and canal bent north and wound steeply upwards. The waterway became natural, a string of small, chiming falls and whirly pools. Forest grew thick, casting sun-flecked duskiness, and the air turned cool. When at last he came forth and saw the Nymphaeum, which he had done just once before and then briefly, Gratillonius was almost startled.

  This was no mere pergola. The grounds occupied a couple of acres, the nearly flat bottom of a hollow under the hilltops, open to the south. North, east, and west the terrain rose somewhat higher, slopes and crests covered with wildwood. On the east side the holy spring welled from a heap of boulders whereon stood a statue of the Mother in Her serenity, shaded by a giant linden. All the waters flowed together to make a broad, clear pond, whence issued the stream that fed the canal. Swans floated upon it. Around it, and in a swathe leading to the building on the west side, a lawn reached silk-smooth, aglow in the afternoon light; peacocks walked there. The grass was bordered by flowerbeds, hedgerows, bowers, laid out with a sweet simplicity. The Nymphaeum itself was of wood, as befitted these surroundings, but on colonnaded classical lines, painted white. Modest in size, it was nonetheless large-windowed, airy, exquisite. A pair of cats, sacred to the Goddess, lay curled in the portico, while Her doves cooed above.

  Here, said belief, the female spirits of nature came, to bathe on moonlit nights and flit frolicsome among the trees by day. Here too would stag-horned Cernunnos often come, drawn by their beauty, to this one place in the world where the forest God was not terrible; it was said that breezes at dawn and sunset were His lovesick sighs. No few wedding parties sought the Nymphaeum, and mothers-to-be like Dahilis, and folk weary of spirit, beseeching benison. Gratillonius’s band dismounted, secured their horses, and approached in a reverence that was joyous.

  Priestesses other than Queens, and descendants of Gallicenae serving their vestalhoods, occupied the house by turns. Seven, robed in plain blue and white, they came out while the newcomers went up the stairs. The girls among them gasped and squeaked as they recognized the King. The aged leader bade him a welcome grave but not awed. When Dahilis spoke her desire, the old one smiled and laid a gnarled hand on her shoulder. ‘Verily shall you have a blessing, child – at once, or as soon as you have rested from your journey if you need that.’ The leader looked at Gratillonius. ‘’Tis a solemnity not for men. Could you absent yourselves an hour or two? You may like to accompany your steeds to the guardhouse; that’s a pleasant stroll in this weather, and the warders would be glad of a chat. Afterwards you shall sup with us and spend the night. Aye, you may stay as long as you wish.’

  ‘I thank my lady,’ said Gratillonius. This was exactly what he had counted on. ‘Duty demands return to Ys tomorrow, but until then we gratefully accept the hospitality of the Goddess.’

  ‘Guide them, Sasai,’ directed the leader, took Dahilis’s elbow, and led the Queen inside.

  A girl of sixteen or seventeen advanced awkwardly and, mute, proceeded down the stairs. Gratillonius recalled her; she had been at the temple of Belisama when he came to ask a storm of the Nine. She was tall, heavy-hipped, thick-ankled. Her head was small, with stringy brown hair, thin lips, underslung chin, and too long a nose. When he drew alongside her, she reddened and cast her glance downward.

  His men led the horses behind him on a woodland trail that began at the rear of the Nymphaeum. Quietness brooded. He wanted to be friendly. ‘Sasai, is that your name?’ he asked the maiden.

  ‘Aye, lord,’ she mumbled, always watching the ground.

  ‘Who is your mother?’

  ‘Morvanalis. She is dead.’

  Gratillonius swore at himself. Of course. He had met all the children of his wives. With an effort, he remembered who Morvanalis had been, the full sister of Fennalis, both born to Calloch and Ochtalis. As for the girl, judging by her age –’Your father was Hoel?’

  ‘Aye, lord.’

  Silence stretched. He searched for words. Finally: ‘Are you happy, Sasai?’

  ‘Aye, lord,’ said the monotone.

  ‘I mean, well, do you think you will continue in service of the Goddess after you turn eighteen?’

  ‘I don’t know, lord.’

  Gratillonius sighed and gave up. The poor creature must be dull-witted as well as homely and ungain
ly. He doubted she could catch a husband or shift for herself. So let her take the vows of a minor priestess; Belisama would shelter her.

  The walk was short to the guardhouse and its stable. A dozen marines were barracked there, in case of danger –not that misfortune had ever stricken these hallowed precincts or the wildest of men dared to violate their peace. The warders were indeed pleased to have company and broke out the mead Gratillonius had already met some and convinced them that the new King could be a comradely sort. Romans and Ysans sat yarning longer than he had expected, until he must hurry back.

  Dahilis sped down the lawn to hurl herself into his arms, never mind stateliness. ‘Oh, beloved, it was so wonderful, and the omens – the omens – She’ll be like none ever before her – your daughter!’ She stood on tiptoe and crammed her lips against his.

  – Supper with the women was simple but savoury. Once grace had been said, talk became animated. Soon Verica and Maclavius were at their ease too. Cynan, fasting, had gone straight to the guestroom he would share with them.

  At sundown the other three soldiers left the triclinium and went forth. The superior had given them permission to pray to Mithras, if they did it off the grounds. They found a glade where the last rays streamed level between boles. On the way back, despite piety, Gratillonius felt cheerful enough to be jocular: ‘Don’t oversleep, boys.’

  Again Dahilis waited outside for him. ‘Shall we take a walk ere we retire?’ she proposed. He was willing. Hand in hand they sauntered about through the dusk, under the early stars. No nymphs appeared, but she was amply sufficient.

  In their own chamber she slipped off sandals and belt, pulled gown and undergarments over her head, let everything fall and reached towards him. A single lampflame cast glow on cheekbones, eyes, the dear vessel that was her belly. Elsewhere shadows caressed her. She smiled. ‘Why stand you there like that?’ she breathed. ‘See you not how I want you?’

  ‘Is it … seemly … here?’

  ‘You marvellous fool!’ she trilled. ‘Where is it more right to make love?’

  When they did, he felt as though Belisama were truly present.

  3

  Gratillonius had told his dreams to wake him at dawn, and they obeyed. Windowpanes were grey; the room brimmed with murk, chill, and silence. He could barely see Dahilis beside him. On the pillow, in its flood of tresses, her face looked like a child’s. How long were those lashes. Babywise, she was curled up under the blanket. He rose as easily as he was able, but the leather webbing under the mattress creaked aloud.

  Her eyes fluttered open. He stooped to kiss her. ‘Hush,’ he whispered. ‘I go to my sunrise prayers, and maybe afterwards a jaunt in the woods. Sleep on.’ He had not told her his real intent, because he knew it hurt her to be reminded that his faith debarred her. If he did now, she would be too excited to rest, and that might not be so good for the unborn. She smiled and closed her eyes again.

  He had clean garb in a bag, which he donned, but when he was shod and combed he took something additional and threw it over his arm. Soft-footed, he left the room and groped his way to a rear door. None of the priestesses or vestals was awake; their services were at noontide, full-moon midnight, and the heliacal rising of Venus. His men awaited him outside. They also wore white tunics, together with military cloaks against the cold. Wordless, they gave him the Roman salute and formed single file, Cynan last. Stars glimmered yet in the western heavens, but the east was lightening. Mists drifted over pond and turf. Dew laved sandalled feet. Only the clear ringing and clucking of water had voice.

  The day before, scanning the heights, he had decided to go northeast. The trail was barely a trace, gloom loured between the trees, men rustled through underbrush and stumbled on roots, but the rivulet they followed sang and glistened for a guide. It took a while to find the sort of place for which Gratillonius had hoped, but then it was perfect, as if Mithras Himself had chosen it. The hillside broadened to form another hollow, like the one where the Nymphaeum stood save for being tiny. Issuing from a spring a little farther up, the stream ran bright, here a whole three feet wide and better than ankle-deep. Beech, hazel, thorn crowded around, night still in the depths among them but crowns silvery under the dawn. They did not grow too close for free movement. Instead, masses of convolvulus twined stems and lifted white chalices. Dew was brilliant on those leaves.

  ‘We are come,’ said Gratillonius. ‘Let us prepare ourselves.’

  Following an invocation he gave, he was first to strip and wash himself in the purifying water. Maclavius and Verica went in next, then stood on either side of Cynan while the postulant did likewise. These three resumed their tunics, heedless of being wet and cold, but Gratillonius had donned a robe and Phrygian cap.

  ‘Kneel,’ he said, laid hands on the head of the recruit, and asked for divine favour.

  Radiance burst forth. The sun cleared the eastern treetops. Gratillonius, Maclavius, and Verica said the morning orison; Cynan stayed aside.

  The Mithraist legionaries had brought flint, steel, tinder, dry wood, and an object which Gratillonius had had a smith make for him. As they, whose rank in the Mystery was Soldier, started and blew on the blaze, Gratillonius the Persian led Cynan through memorized responses. They rang firm into the quiet.

  The bed of the fire was soon hot. Maclavius took the branding iron by its wooden handle and held it in the coals. ‘Kneel,’ ordered Gratillonius again, ‘and receive the Sign.’ Cynan obeyed. Gratillonius accepted the iron from Maclavius. Cynan watched unflinchingly. Verica came from behind to brace him by the shoulders. Gratillonius strode from the fire with the iron red in his right hand. His left brushed back a lock that had fallen over Cynan’s brow. For an instant, looking down into those eyes, he recalled how he had slashed this face on shipboard. The weal was long gone. The brand of the Sun would never go, quite, though in time it would fade to as pale a mark as was on him and the other two men. Speaking the Word of Fire, he put the iron to the forehead. Breath hissed between Cynan’s teeth, the sole token the Demetan gave. A roasting smell marred the air. Gratillonius withdrew the iron, gave it to Maclavius, and bent to help Cynan rise. ‘Come,’ he said. Together they went back to stand in the stream. Gratillonius scooped a handful of water and let it run over the angry red sigil. ‘Be welcome, Raven, to the Fellowship,’ he said. He embraced the new brother and kissed him on both cheeks. They returned to earth, wading through the convolvulus. ‘It is done,’ Gratillonius said.

  A cry ripped across his awareness. Swinging about, the men saw Dahilis under the trees. Her hair was dishevelled, her gown mud-stained. Tears coursed down her countenance.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Gratillonius roared in his shock, and heard Cynan snarl: ‘A woman, at this holy hour?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, I followed your tracks in the dew and went on upstream, I thought we – O-oh,’ she wailed, ‘oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but ’tis dreadful what you’ve done. I dared not speak till now –’ She lifted arms and gaze heavenwards. ‘Belisama Mother, forgive them. They knew not what they did.’

  As ever in crisis, Gratillonius’s mind leapt to action. He confronted the men. ‘She has not profaned the ceremony,’ he said in Latin with all the authority he could muster. ‘This is no Mithraeum, just a site that was suitable, open to anyone, and she did not interrupt. Mithras is satisfied. You be too.’ Inwardly, he could only hope he was truthful. He himself had not been instructed in the deepest lore of the Faith.

  When he saw them glowering but calm, he went to stand before Dahilis. His arms longed to hold her close and dismiss her despair. Instead he must fold them and say levelly: ‘We have done no harm, no sacrilege. We held an initiation. That requires flowing water, and there is none in Ys.’ A sardonic part of him remembered that city Mithraeums commonly drew it from a tank. But of course there was no Mithraeum in Ys.

  ‘Don’t you … don’t you see?’ she stammered. ‘This stream – from Ahes – it flows to join Her most sacred water – and, and you, your male God
–’

  He decided that it would not be unwise to close his fingers gently on her forearms, look straight into the lapis lazuli eyes, and say, quite sincerely: ‘My dear, in the end all Gods go back to the One; and as for me, I am the high priest and avatar of Taranis, Her lover. If I have done wrong, on my head be it; but I deny that I have. Ask your Sisters. Meanwhile, fear not.’

  She gulped, shuddered, straightened. He wished he could console her. Abruptly her smile kindled, however tremulous. ‘Why, I am, am with you always, Grallon –Gratillonius, beloved,’ she said. ‘Cynan, I’m sorry if I… disturbed you … at a wonderful moment … and belike naught was profaned. And, and here is the spring of Ahes, my nymph, my patroness. Surely she’ll listen when I ask her to intercede with Belisama – Shall we be friends again, we five?’

  The King thought in a leap of joy: With so high a heart, she may well fulfil the omen she spoke of, she may well bear us a daughter who’ll be remembered when Brennilis herself is forgotten.

  Dahilis looked about. ‘Why, see the convolvulus,’ she exclaimed as vivaciously as might be. ‘Is’t not fair? Could you wait a little, kind sirs, while I gather some?’ She became busy doing so. Her chatter went on: ‘’Tis medicinal, but we grow it not in the city or nearby, for ’tis apt to overrun gardens. My Sister Innilis has told me her supply’s run short, for ever does she go about as a healer among the poor in Ys. Belisama’s Cup, they call this flower. Know you why? The story is that once, long, long ago, a wagon was hopelessly mired. She came by in the guise of a mortal and told the carter She would help him free it. He laughed and asked what payment She wanted. ‘I give My gifts for love,’ She answered, ‘but now I thirst. Would you give me some of your wine?’ Said he, ‘Well, I’d not grudge a woman that, but alas, I’ve no cup with me.’ She plucked a convolvulus flower, he filled it, She drank, and thereupon the wheels rolled on to firm ground. Aye, the Goddess can be tender.’