Roma Mater (29 page)

Such children as had tagged after him at a distance gave up when he, seeking calmness, entered Elven Gardens. A wall with guarded portals kept the general public out of these exquisitely contoured and cultivated grounds. He found himself alone. If any else were present, the intricacy of paths, hedges, bowers kept them well off, despite this preserve being less than a hundred yards across.

Stillness underlay birdsong. Flowerbeds were hallways, hedges walls, trees roofs; each petal and leaf seemed in its perfect place, as though sculptured. Nowhere were trails, staircases, arched bridges wider than for two people to walk abreast, and nowhere could he see more than a few paces before their curves went out of his view. Yet he had no sense of crowding. Sunlight and shadow made secret depths. A statue of a nymph or faun, or a fountain where stone dolphins played, or the chiming of a streamlet would leap out at him. The forenoon coolness was full of fragrances.

At the farther end he came forth before the staircase to
the temple. It climbed steeply, unrailed, from surrounding flagstones. There he had an overlook across much of the city, its towers agleam between shouldering headlands which had turned emerald and gold, the sea beyond whose daughter Ys was, sails like wings beneath the burning Wheel of Taranis. It was not the first time since his arrival here that beauty had taken him by the throat, and he a hardened roadpounder.

He mounted to the building. It resembled the Parthenon of Athens, in smaller size, though a close glance showed aliennesses – columns more slender, with capitals suggestive of kelp and surf; a frieze of women, seals, cats, doves, blossoms, sheaves, in a style that flowed like water or wind; the marble left bare, weathered to the hue of pale amber.

Bronze doors stood open. Gratillonius entered into a foyer radiant with mosaics of the Mother’s gifts to earth. Attendants waited, minor priestesses – who were mostly in their later years – and young vestals. Among the latter he noticed one he had not seen before. Therefore she could be no child of any of his wives. Her mother must be dead; judging by her apparent age, her father had been Hoel. She was of plain appearance and seemed a little dull-witted. He gave her no further thought.

The women greeted him ceremoniously. He replied as he had been taught to and let a maiden take his cloak. Beneath, in deference to this place, he wore a scarlet robe trimmed with ermine, the Wheel embroidered in gold upon the breast. Above it, out in view, hung the Key. That last was as much emblem as he really needed.

A senior led him through a corridor around that great chamber where the threefold image of the Goddess oversaw services. At the rear was a room for meetings. It was amply impressive. In sombre stonework, the four walls showed Her leading Taranis back from the dead to His
reconciliation with Lir; present at the act of generation, while dandelion seeds blew and bees flew past the bed; triune as girl child, woman, and crone; in the van of the Wild Hunt. Windows above illuminated the high white headdresses of the Gallicenae. Blue-robed, they sat benched in a half-circle before the dais on to which Gratillonius stepped. His guide closed the door and departed.

Gratillonius looked down into the faces of his wives. Briefly, he was daunted. What strangeness was it that had fallen over them? Wry old Quinipilis; lean, intense Vindilis; Forsquilis, half Athene and half she-cat; sensuous, indolent Maldunilis; shy Innilis; stout, kindly, grey Fennalis; her daughter Lanarvilis, earnest and in some hidden way sorrowful; Bodilis, beneath whose warmth and learning he thought he had sensed steel; darling Dahilis –

No,
she
had nothing but love in her gaze. And as for the rest, he must not let his feelings about them, especially about certain of them, unduly influence him. In their own view they had acted righteously, after intolerable provocation. Seemingly they knew things and wielded powers that were beyond him – that was why he was calling on them – but he should not stand in awe of them, either. He had knowledge and abilities of his own.

Muscle by muscle, Gratillonius relaxed. He smiled. ‘Greeting,’ he said. By now his Ysan was adequate, and daily improving. ‘My thanks for heeding my summons. I think you understand ’tis for the good of the people. I, a man and a foreigner, am still ignorant of much. If we ought to begin with a prayer or a sacrifice, tell me.’

Fennalis stirred on her seat. ‘We cannot,’ she snapped, ‘with you in this house, you who follow a God Who does not hear women.’

Startled, Gratillonius grabbed after a handhold within himself. What possessed this generally cheerful little
person? Offence at his never having slept with her? She had seemed to accept his awkward explanation that it was against his religion – ruefully, he suspected, but no more than that, for she was in fact past childbearing age. Usually bustling about on her charitable works, carelessly dressed, she was the last of the Nine whom he would have expected to show intolerance. Her snub-nosed features had stiffened.

‘I … I revere Belisama, of course,’ he tried to respond, ‘and all the Gods of Ys.’

‘They sent him to us!’ Dahilis cried. Appalled at her own brashness, she covered her mouth; but her eyes still shone defiant.

Quinipilis laughed. ‘Shall we save the squabbles for long winter evenings when there’s naught else to do?’ she said. ‘This council has business more interesting. At the same time, nay, Gratillonius, we need no rite. Such may come later. Today we are but met to reach a decision.’

‘It is a very grave decision, however,’ Lanarvilis replied. ‘Questions of statecraft … We should have other men on hand, the Speaker for Taranis, Lir Captain, the Sea Lord –’

‘I will certainly be in conference with them,’ Gratillonius promised. ‘I’ll have them out to the Wood when, shortly, I stand my full-moon Watch there. But first I must have the willingness of the Gallicenae.’

Vindilis scowled. ‘That turns on the willingness of the Gods. Who dares try to read Their minds?’

‘Aye,’ said Bodilis softly. ‘And even without hubris, what may stem from a terrible deed? Agamemnon did not truly sacrifice Iphigenia for a fair wind – the Gods wafted her away to safety – but Clytemnestra knew this not, and so murder led to murder until the curse on the house of Atreus was fulfilled.’

‘Hold on,’ Quinipilis admonished. ‘’Tis no delicate
balancing of ifs and maybes we have before us, ’tis a practical question not unlike the last such that we Nine faced. Meseems we came rather well out of that one.’

Bodilis smiled a little. ‘I agree. My inclination is to do what the King asks. Without Rome, what is Ys? I only urge that we think first.’

Maldunilis looked bewildered. ‘What is this? Nobody has told me,’ she complained.

‘You didn’t trouble to listen,’ Dahilis said in scorn.

‘I – I think – no, wait –’ After Innilis had tried several times, her Sisters realized that she hoped to utter a word, and indulged her. ‘That’s … not fair to Maldunilis. Did anybody ever seek her out and ask what she thought? I’ve no real understanding of it myself. I don’t. Gratillonius wants us to raise a tempest … against some barbarians who aren’t our enemies … Well, why?’ She sank back in confusion. Vindilis gave her hand a reassuring clasp.

The man saw that matters were getting away from him. He cleared his throat. ‘It may be best to lay everything out in plain sight, no matter how much you already know,’ he said. ‘Forsquilis, will you explain what you have discovered?’

The seeress nodded. All eyes turned her way. Though she remained seated, it was as if she had stood up, tall and prophetic.

‘You remember Gratillonius asked me to make a Sending, widely about,’ she told them. ‘The Empire is at war with itself. Our fleet is off to keep western Armorica at peace. But might barbarians, then, take the chance to strike at Ys? Or might a Roman faction? We needed forewarning.

‘With your consent, I agreed. My spirit flew forth over land and sea, to look and listen. What it found, I have reported to him but not erenow to every one of you. Hark ye.’

The centurion was still unsure what truth lay in her. He believed her sincere; but lunatics as well as charlatans infested the world. Nevertheless he had got his glimpses of the unexplainable; and his duty was to use every possible weapon for Rome. After sleepless nights, he had decided to try this.

If Forsquilis could really send her ghost abroad and understand what it heard, no matter in what language, then it might well be that the Gallicenae had those other powers they claimed.

She was so calm about it! There are no plans against Ys. The Armorican Romans mean to stay quiet. Some resent our show of naval strength, regardless of its being made as a polite hint rather than a threat. More of them, though, find it a godsend, the very excuse they longed for to avoid the risk of taking sides; and they have prevailed on the rest. Barbarians are astir along the denuded eastern frontiers, but that is remote from us.

‘It is in Hivernia that I found fresh grief being prepared for the West. A chieftain – a king, a great king, the master behind last year’s attack on Britannia – means to take advantage of civil war in the Empire and launch an onslaught up the mouth of the Liger – very soon.’

She ceased. Stillness descended while each priestess withdrew into herself.

Then: ‘Oh, wonderful!’ Maldunilis piped. ‘The River Liger, ’tis well south of us, is’t not? Won’t the Scoti sail far around Ys?’

Forsquilis nodded. ‘They’ve abundant respect for us.’

‘’Tis a piratical raid, you told me, not an invasion,’ Lanarvilis said. ‘Is it then any concern of ours?’

‘’Twill be a massive raid.’

Gratillonius regained the word: ‘That’s my fear. Portus Namnetum lies not far upstream, a vital harbour for this entire region. Because of the war, ’twill be poorly
defended. If the barbarians take and sack it, as well they may, not only will shipping around Gallia Lugdunensis suffer. The whole Liger valley will lie open to later attacks.’ His forefinger tried to draw a map in the air. ‘Can you not see Armorica, Ys, cut off, and Rome suddenly bleeding from a huge gash of a wound? I ask you to defend the well-being of your children and grandchildren.’

‘Or that of Maximus?’ Fennalis challenged. ‘You’d have us wreak harm on folk who wish us none.’

‘But who intend doing hideous damage elsewhere to those who never harmed
them
,’ Bodilis retorted.

Quinipilis nodded. ‘We need to kill them where we can as we need to kill foxes in a chickencoop, though the chickencoop happen to be our neighbours’.’

Bodilis laughed. ‘You might have found a metaphor more dignified, dear. But I agree. I cannot believe the Gods of Ys would forbid a strategy of defending civilization itself.’

‘Under our King!’ Dahilis shouted.

‘The Nine alone cannot –’ Lanarvilis began, and broke off. ‘Well, you said you would consult with Soren, Hannon, the leading Suffetes ere anything is decided.’

‘I am aware I must have their support,’ Gratillonius answered. ‘But I cannot speak meaningfully with them unless first I have yours.’

Forsquilis shivered. ‘My Sending has felt cold winds blowing out of the future,’ she mumbled. Aloud: ‘The Gods have granted Ys a proven leader. Let him lead.’

‘We should … give him his chance … this time,’ Vindilis said slowly. A dark fire burned in her. Innilis clung to her hand.

Fennalis made a slight shrug. ‘’Twould be foolish of me to cross my whole Sisterhood. Very well. You may be right.’

‘Pray somebody tell me what ’tis we’re to do!’ Maldunilis begged.

Gratillonius gave her, and all of them, his reply.

2

An eerie thing happened as Niall maqq Echach was leaving Ériu:

His warriors were gathered where Boand’s River met the sea. Tents, which had settled over the hills like a flight of wild geese, were now struck. Grass would soon heal campsites, for the season was well on; it had taken a while after Beltene to finish work and then trek here. Wagons and chariots stood ready to rumble home. Banners lifted above bright spearheads where men surrounded their tuathal kings. The currachs that would bear most of them were still beached, but several ships lay anchored in the shallows. Everyone waited for the Temir King to board his.

Racket and brawling were silenced, clangour was hushed. Rain misted. The cool smells of it came from earth, growth, cattle, smoke out of wide-strewn shielings, the waters that beckoned ahead.

Niall strode forth. The greyness around could not subdue the saffron in his tunic, the woad in his kilt, the gold at his throat, the steel on his spear, least of all the locks that streamed from brow to shoulders. His left fist gripped a shield painted the colour of fresh blood. Behind him came his son Breccan and his guardsmen, hardly less brilliant. Beside him on the right walked his chief poet Laidchenn maqq Barchedo, on the left his chief druid Nemain maqq Aedo.

His ship lay before him. She was a galley of the Saxon
kind, clinker-built, open save for small decks fore and aft, seats and thole-pins for rowers along the bulwarks. Oars lay ready across the benches. Down the middle stretched mast, yardarm, and sail, bundled together on two low racks, not to be raised unless a following wind should arise. The stempost lifted proudly, carven and gilt, a Roman skull nailed on top. Black the hull was, rocking and tugging at its stone anchor, eager to be off to war. Cargo filled the bilge, supplies and battle gear laid down on planks.

Niall had come near enough to hear eddies rustle and chuckle, when the thing came to pass. Out of the grey rain flew a raven. It was the largest any man there had ever seen, its wings like twin midnights. Arrow-straight it glided, to land on the upper rim of Niall’s shield and look into his face.

Heavily though that weight struck, the shield never wavered. Not for one step did the King falter. The point of the beak was an inch from the bridge of his nose and could in two pecks take out his eyes; but their blue looked straight into the jet behind that beak, the while he said low, ‘Hail and honour, if this be She Whom I think..’

A gasp and a moan blew through the host. Breccan yelled and stumbled back before he mastered his terror. The guardsmen milled in confusion till their captain spoke a command and got them back at their lord’s heels. Laidchenn raised the chiming rod that proclaimed him a poet, inviolable, before he went on along beside Niall. The knuckles were white where Nemain clutched his staff.