Roma Mater (4 page)

The celebrants crossed the floor of oak planks and birch logs to their benches along the walls. The Father took his place before the Tauroctony. He was an aged man, as was the Heliodromos who served him. Their deaths would surely spell the end of worship here.

Gratillonius raised up his heart. However men blundered, Mithras remained true to His world; and meanwhile he, Gratillonius, had his own victory ahead of him.

Imbolc marked the season of making ready for the year’s work, the lambing that would soon begin, spring sowing later, fishing whenever Manandan and the merfolk would allow. People took stock of what supplies remained in household and farmyard. On the coasts they gathered seaweed to cut up and strew on their fields, as well as shellfish when the tide of Brigit stood at its lowest. Yet the day itself and the vigil of the day were hallowed. Along the shores of Condacht and Mumu, live periwinkles or limpets were buried around each house for luck on strand and water. Many tuaths elsewhere did no work that called for the turning of a wheel, such as carting; it might bewilder the sun on his homeward course. Families wove new talismans of straw and twigs and hung them about dwellings for protection against lightning and fire. They celebrated the eve with the best feast their stores could provide, putting some outside for the Goddess, Who would be travelling that night, and grain for Her white cow. They reckoned, however, that Brigit was also pleased if the food went to the needy, or to those parties of youths and maidens that carried Her emblems from home to home across the land – as long as the gift was given in Her name.

Anxiously they watched for weather signs. Rain was welcome, to soften the ground and hasten growth of new grass; but storms were ominous, and if the hedgehog did not appear, that meant he was keeping his burrow in expectation of more winter followed by a hard summer. This year, what happened was so shifty across Ériu that no one knew what to await. Wisewomen said it portended
strange doings and great changes; druids generally stayed silent.

On Temir was the most splendid of all festivals, for it was the King’s, and Niall maqq Echach bade fair to become the mightiest since Corbmac maqq Arti, or even to outreach that lord. Not only his household and following were on hand, learned men, ollam craftsmen, warriors, their women and children; not only free tenants of both his and theirs, and families of these, from end to end of Mide; not only kings of the tuaths over whom he held sway, and their own attendants and underlings. From Condacht, whence the forebears of Niall had sprung, came many to greet their kinsman. From Mumu, where he had friends, came not a few. From the Lagini came some, more in hopes of mildening him towards themselves than in love. From the Ulati, alone among the Fifths, came not a man, unless it be a few outcasts begging. But then, in Emain Macha they held a revel too, which they said was as royal and sacral as this.

Throughout the day of the vigil Niall had been taken up with welcoming his guests as they arrived, in such ways as became their standings and his. Now at eventide he would open the festivities.

Bathed and freshly clad, in stately wise he walked from the King’s House to the point where the southward-running of the Five Roads to Temir came up on the hilltop. There his chariot awaited him. Its matched grey horses snorted and pawed; Cathual the driver must keep tight reins. Niall mounted easily. When the wheels groaned into motion, he stood steady amidst the rocking and jouncing. His spear swayed like a ship’s mast. Sunlight streamed level to make its head shine as if newly bloodied.

From here Niall saw widely over his domains. Down along the road clustered the booths and tents of lower-ranking
folk for whom the buildings had no space. Many were striped in colours, and pennons fluttered above some. On the next summit loomed the hill fort sacred to Medb. Heights round about were still bright, but hollows were filling with shadow. Though leafless, forest hid Boand’s River to the north; yet the air, damp and turning chill, bore a sense of Her presence among the spirits that thronged nigh. Westward land dropped steeply to the plain, its pastures winter-dulled, save that mists had arisen to beswirl them with molten gold. The sun cast the same hue on clouds above that horizon, with heaven violet beyond them. Ahead of Niall bulked the Great Rath, its lime-whitened earthwork and the palisade on top likewise aglow.

People crowded the paths to watch him and his guards go by. Men’s tunics and cloaks, their breeches or kilts, the gowns of women were vivid in red, yellow, blue, green, orange, black, white; gold, silver, amber, crystal, gems glistened around brows, throats, arms, waists; spears, axes, drawn swords flashed high in reverence; on shields, round or oval, the painted marks of their owners twined or snarled or ramped. Children, dogs, pigs ran about among the grown and joined their clamour to the shout that billowed for the King.

Well did he seem worthy of hailing. His chariot of state bore bronze masks on the sides; the spokes of its two wheels were gilded; at either rail hung the withered head of a Roman, taken by him in the past summer’s warfare. Cathual the charioteer was a youngling short but lithe and comely, clad in tunic of scarlet; headband, belt, and wristlets were set with silver. From the shoulders of Niall swung a cloak of the finest wool, striped in the full seven colours permitted a king; his undershirt was of Roman silk, his tunic saffron with red and blue embroideries; rather than breeches he wore a kilt, dark russet to show
off the whiteness and shapeliness of his legs, with shoes of kid on his feet. His ornaments outweighed and outshone all others.

Finest to see was himself. At some thirty years of age, after uncounted battles against men and beasts, Niall maqq Echach remained without any flaw that might cost him his lordship. Taller than most he reared, wide in shoulders and slender in hips, skin fair even where weather had touched it and not unduly shaggy, wildcat muscles flowing beneath. Golden were his long hair and moustaches, his close-trimmed beard. His brow was broad, his nose straight, his chin narrow; eyes gleamed fire-blue.

Behind the chariot paced his hounds and his hostages, the men’s attire revealing his generosity. They wore light golden chains, that everyone might know them for what they were, but strode proudly enough; their position was honourable, and most times they went unhampered. Behind them, and also in front of the chariot, walked his warriors. Closest to him were the four bodyguards and the gigantic champion, bearing helmets and dress shields of polished bronze; but the rest were hardly less brilliant, in tunics like their master’s, axes glimmering and spearheads nodding on high.

Folk cheered themselves hoarse to see the power of King Niall. Few were so close as to make out the grimness upon his lips, the bitterness in his face.

The procession turned where a gate stood open in the Great Rath and a bridge had been laid down across the ditch. It went over the lawn within, past the lesser enclosure of the Royal Guesthouse and the embanked mound whereon rose the King’s quarters. A ways farther on, it halted. There the Mound of the Kings lifted itself athwart the outer palisade.

Niall did not dismount and climb its grassy slopes. That
was only done when a new King was taken. Then he would stand on the sacred slab at the top, make his three turns dessiul and widdershins, receive the White Wand, invoke the Gods. On this holy eve, Cathual guided the chariot past the Phallus below, five lichenous feet of standing stone. A fighting man stationed at that menhir swung a bullroarer to proclaim that this was truly the King who came by.

The procession went on, out of a northern gate, past other stones to which Niall dipped his spear, past the Rath of the Warriors, between the small mounds Dall and Dercha, on to the Feasting Hall. Niall’s Queen, his sons, his counsellors, their chief servants stood waiting. Cathual drew rein and the overlord sprang down. He gave his weapon to the charioteer and first greeting to the druid and the poets, as was seemly. Thereafter he received the salutations of the others according to their status.

‘Now we’ve a time to wait,’ he said. ‘Is it a good sign that we are free of rain the while?’

‘It is that,’ answered the druid, Nemain maqq Aedo, gravely, ‘but other signs have been such that you will be wise to sacrifice more than is wont tomorrow.’

Niall scowled. ‘I did so last year, at both Imbolc and Beltene, and meagre gain did we have of it.’

Some people looked aghast at this defiance of the Powers. Nemain simply raised his hand. He was gaunt, snowy-bearded, his eyes dimmed by years and by peering into mysteries. Unlike everyone else, he wore a plain white robe and blue cloak; but his staff was carved with potent ogamm signs. ‘Speak not rashly, dear heart,’ he said. ‘If you failed to overrun the foe – then, sure it nonetheless is that you brought home alive yourself and most of the men, with not so little plunder. Would it not have been easier, now, for the Mórrigu to let you lie raven-food under the Roman Wall? The signs I have read,
in stars and staves and secret pools, are signs of mighty deeds, of a world in travail with a new birth. Give freely, and receive back honour.’

Flame flickered up through Niall’s sullen mood. ‘Warfare already again this summer?’

That is as may be. Thus far the red wind only whispers, and I know not from what quarter it is blowing.’

Niall’s glance flew about, south towards the Lagini, north towards the Ulati, east towards Alba across the water, which the Romans called Britannia. There it lingered.

Breccan, his eldest son, advanced. ‘Father, dear,’ he cried, ‘you’ll be taking me along, will you not?’

Niall turned and regarded him. The sun had just set, but light remained in heaven to make the boy shine forth against a world going dun Breccan was tall for his fourteen years but not filled out; his limbs thrust spidery from the garments that covered his slip of a body. The hair tumbled flax-white past huge blue eyes and a face whose beauty was redeemed from girlishness by the down on its upper lip. Yet he moved with a certain coltish grace; few could match him in a race afoot or on horseback; he was fierce in the games that his kind played and in practice with weapons.

‘You are a stripling,’ Niall said, though he smiled more kindly than he had done since his return. ‘Be patient. You’ll be winning fame aplenty in due course.’

Breccan swallowed, stood his ground, and said stoutly, ‘Seven years it’s been since I took valour. You told me then that I should have to wait no longer than that.’ He appealed to the Queen. ‘Mother, did he not indeed?’

She, who was in truth his stepmother but had always got along with him, smiled in her turn. ‘Niall, darling,’ she said, ‘I remember you promised he should – fare
widely, those were your words – after seven years. And did not yourself do the same?’

Niall’s countenance darkened. She made a mistake when she reminded him of his own stepmother and how Mongfind schemed his destruction for the sake of her sons by his father.

Laidchenn maqq Barchedo spoke softly: ‘It is to the glory of the King when someone recalls his exploits. This is also true of deeds done together by brothers among whom there was faith.’

For a heartbeat Niall’s mouth tightened. But he could not gainsay an ollam poet, who moreover was a guest and the former pupil of his foster-father. Nor did the man from Mumu intend anything but good. He merely called to mind that the sons of Mongfind had themselves never conspired against Niall but had become his trusty followers; and that he had no right to suspect his wife of urging Breccan into early battle, to get him out of the way of her sons.

The King eased. ‘We shall see,’ he told the boy. ‘Do you begin by learning how to wait. You will do enough of that in war.’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘And likewise you will know chills, rains, mud, growling belly, weary feet, grumbling men, and baggage trains gone astray. Not to talk of dripping noses, runny guts, and never a woman for your bed!’

Gladness went through listeners like a wave. For the first time since coming back to Ériu, himself seemed cheerful. Well, this was the eve of Brigit, and She a healing Goddess.

Meanwhile guests had come crowding about. Men gave their weapons into the care of attendants, for it was gess to go armed into this house. The very eating-knives must be solely in the hands of the servers who would carve the joints. Their shields the men turned over to the steward.
Aided by household staff, he bore them inside. There the royal senchaide directed where they should hang, in order of dignity, so that each owner would go straight to his place without scrambles or quarrels. It took a knowledge of lineages and histories through long generations. Dusk had deepened before all was ready and a horn blew invitation.

Magnificent was the Feasting Hall on Temir. The earthwork that sheltered it was not round but seven hundred and fifty feet in length, ninety feet in width; and the building left scant room between. Although it had stood for more than two years, and would be torn down this year before a new one was raised for the next Harvest Fair, it did not much show wear. Peeled upright poles making the walls were still bright, ties and chinking still solid; winds had not disturbed the intricately woven patterns of the thatch.

Within, the double rows of pillars upholding that high roof would be reused, as great as they were and as thickly carved with magical figures. Lamps hanging from the rafters and a fire in a pit at the middle gave light to see by, reflecting off gold and burnished bronze. Down the length of the nave, servers stood ready to carve the meat that kitchen help were bringing in from the cookhouse. Guests took benches along the aisles, before which were trestle tables bearing cups of mead. Foremost, at the centre of the east side, was Niall’s place, flanked by the men of greatest honour. Fifty guards stood in attendance, also disarmed but their shields and helmets asheen in unrestful shadows.

The Queen and other women sat opposite. Unlike most homes, at Temir it was not usual for them to join the men at feast. Instead, they dined in the Royal Guesthouse. This, though, was time sacred to a female God and to the fruitfulness of the coming season. Besides, some of them
flaunted scars from battles, and had brought back several of the skulls which stared emptily from the walls. Medb Herself could take pride in celebrants like these.