Gallicenae (17 page)

“How long have you lived here?” the centurion asked.

Corentinus shrugged. “Time ceases to have meaning after a few seasons of seeking eternity.” Again he talked like a schooled man. “Umm … five years?”

“I hadn’t heard of you, though I visited Aquilo three years ago.”

“Why should you? I’m nobody. You must be far more interesting, Gratillonius.”

“What, when you can do magic like this?”

Corentinus scowled. “Please! I said it is no sorcery, no pagan trick.
I
don’t do the thing. When I had first fled my sinfulness, an angel of the Lord appeared to me in a dream and told me of the divine favor I was given. I didn’t know what it meant, I was bewildered and frightened. After all, the Devil had come in the same guise, no, in the guise of the very Christ, to my holy father Martinus, and tried to deceive him.” His tone softened. “Oh, I had to rally my nerve, I can tell you. But what could I do except obey? And behold, my little brother swam quietly into my hands, just as you saw; and I understood that God’s mercy is infinite.”

Gratillonius wrestled with his honor and lost. He cleared his throat. “I’d better be frank with you,” he said. “I’m no Christian myself.”

“Oh?” Corentinus seemed no more than mildly surprised. “You, an officer who goes around on what must be important missions?”

“Well, I—All right, sir. I follow the Lord Mithras.”

Corentinus looked long at him. “It’s well for you that you didn’t dissemble, my son. I don’t matter, but God doesn’t like false pretenses.”

“No. My God doesn’t… either.”

“You may wish to reconsider, after what you’ve seen this evening.”

Gratillonius shook his head. “I don’t deny your God has powers. But I will not deny mine.”

Corentinus nodded. “I’d begun to suspect you were not of the Faith. Your behavior, your stance, everything. I knocked around in the world before coming here.”

“If you don’t want me under your roof, I’ll go.”

“Oh, no, no!” Corentinus raised his free hand. “God forbid! You’re a guest. A most welcome one, I might add.” He smiled a bit wistfully. “I’ve no hopes of converting you in a single night, and know better than to try. Let’s just swap yarns. But… you spoke of making me some return for hospitality. If you really mean it, then what you shall do is think. Look around you at God’s world and ask yourself how it could have come to be and what this life of ours is all about. Think.” He paused. “No, I’ll not ask that you pray for guidance. You couldn’t, if you’re as true a worshipper of Mithras as you seem to be. I do ask that you open your mind. Listen. Think.”

After a brief silence: “Well, I believe supper is ready; and you haven’t yet gotten out the flatbread!”

He insisted Gratillonius take nearly the whole of the food. His share was only a token of friendliness. There was nothing but water to drink.
Regardless, the two men soon fell into talk that lasted through the rain till the sunrise.

Corentinus took fire at what Gratillonius told about Ys. He had been there once, as a crewman on one of the few outside ships that called; he had toured its wonders and, he admitted without breast-beating, its resorts of sin. That Ys was coming back into the Roman sphere struck him as a happy portent.

Indeed, despite his isolation, he was astonishingly well informed. Mention of Priscillianus grieved but did not surprise him; he had known. It turned out that he still got occasional letters from his mentor Martinus.

As for his past, he was the son of a Britannic immigrant to Osismia, born on the fundus of a well-to-do, thoroughly Romanized family. There he received a good basic schooling, though he was more interested in ranging the woodlands or galloping the horses. (He and Gratillonius found kindred memories to chuckle at.) But meanwhile his father’s fortune was declining: between the general ill health of commerce, the depredations of the barbarians, and the grinding down of the curials. (Now the two could be grim together.) At the age of fifteen, Corentinus got out from under the ruin and went off on his own. Through what connections remained to him he obtained a berth on a ship, the law being winked at, and spent the next several years as a sailor, a rough man in a rough life.

Finally a storm blew his vessel so far out to sea that the crew despaired of winning back. Most perished miserably in the attempt, in spite of forgetting whatever Christianity was theirs and making horrid sacrifices to other Gods. Corentinus saw visions in his delirium. When at last he reached the Liger mouth, once he had regained strength he made his way to Pictavum, where Martinus then was, Martinus of whom Corentinus had never heard from any human mouth.

This man gave him instruction while he settled into the monastic community. Its books added to his learning. In time he grew restless, and was delighted to accompany Martinus when the latter went to Turonum; to take baptism at the hands of Martinus after Martinus became the bishop; to aid in the effort to evangelize the countryside—until he fell from grace with a heathen woman. Aghast at himself, he asked leave to seek forgiveness through penance, and returned to Osismia to become an anchorite. There it was revealed that, despite everything, God had not cast him off.

—Gratillonius re-entered Aquilo full of thought.

4

As closely as it followed winter solstice, the Birthday of Mithras at Ys gave a glimmer of daylight, barely more than six hours, in a cavern of night. Before sunrise, walls on either side made the pomoerium brim with darkness. Air was bitterly cold. Beyond the rampart growled
the sea, and above it skirled the wind. Yet Gratillonius dared hope he saw a good omen in the stars flickering overhead.

Lanterns bobbed, brought faces half out of shadow, made grotesqueries flutter across stone. Buskins clicked, raiment rustled, men kept mute as he led his procession up the stairway. The Raven Tower bulked foursquare out into the surf, its battlements like shields raised against heaven. Sentries, who had been told what to expect, saluted and stepped aside. Lantern-glimmer showed awe on one countenance, misgiving on another, stiffness on the third and fourth. The door stood open. Gratillonius and his followers entered the turret. A stairwell gaped before them. They mounted, came forth on top, looked across the parapet to the dawn.

It whitened above inland hills, turned their ridges hoar, crept down the valley, while stars went out. The towers of Ys caught it in a flash of copper, gold, and glass. The roofs of Ys rose from murk like whales from the sea. Beyond them Point Vanis reared and brightened. Closer by, Cape Rach thrust ruggedly forth. Shifting illumination made it seem as if the old dead were stealing back to their sleep in the necropolis. The pharos smoked briefly—its keeper had snuffed the flame—then gleamed of itself. Ocean sheened, wrinkled, spouted off reefs, out to Sena and on across the curve of the world. Drifts of kelp darkened it here and there; seals tumbled about in the waves.

There were a few minutes to wait. Men stood contemplative or talked in low voices. Gratillonius and his father drew aside, until they looked down on the finger of sea that reached between headland and city wall, east toward Aurochs Gate. Thus confined, the water dashed noisily against stone and a strip of beach. Gloom still dwelt in that gap, but glints went like fire.

“The moment draws near,” said Marcus Valerius Gratillonius.

“At last,” answered Gaius his son.

Marcus smiled one-sidedly. “I never believed those historians who put ringing periods in the mouths of leaders when a great event is about to happen. Real people mumbled words worn smooth of meaning.”

“Well, we can keep silence.” Gaius’s gaze strayed west toward the seals and Sena. Did the shade of Dahilis really linger somewhere yonder? Did she watch him now?

Marcus summoned resolution. “Except for this. It’s not too late to turn back. Not quite.”

Gaius sighed. “It always was. I’m sorry, father.”

Since a delegation of Ysan marines, and the legionary Cynan for spokesman, sought him out at the villa in Britannia this past summer and brought him here in the royal yacht, Marcus had questioned the wisdom of establishing a Mithraeum—so lavish, too—in this of all cities. True, the King had overcome opposition, but he had not quelled it in many hearts, and those were only the hearts of men.

Nonetheless Marcus had accepted the instruction and ultimately the consecration that raised him to Runner of the Sun. How strange it felt to Gaius, to be the guiding Father over this man who had brought him into being.

“I understand,” Marcus said, almost meekly. He had aged much in the past few years. “Forget my croakings. Well build Him His fortress.”

On the frontier of the night—Day was advancing.

“Good for you, sir!” Gaius blurted.

Marcus plucked at the sleeve of the hierophantic robe. “Afterward we’ll have time for ourselves, won’t we?” he whispered.

Gaius squeezed the bowed shoulder. “Of course. I promise.”

Between royal and Roman duties, the King had had small opportunity thus far to be with his palace guest, and then it had mostly gone to preparing the latter for his role this morning. Fortunately, Marcus had been glad to explore the city and enjoy his grandchildren, Dahut the foremost.

Come spring, he must return home, lest that home crumble from the hands of the family. He and his son did not suppose they would ever meet again. But first they could lighten the Black Months for each other. That was why Gaius had sent for Marcus.

He could more readily have elevated somebody else. Soon he must do so. By issuing invitations during the year, he had gained a congregation for the hallowing of his temple: three Ravens, two Occults, a Lion, two Persians. Additionally, he had seen Cynan through to the rank of Soldier, Verica and Maclavius to Lion. That was all he had.

Light flared. The sun rose over the hills. Gaius Valerius Gratillonius led his men in hymn and prayer.

Before they went below, he raised a hand in salute to Point Vanis, where rested the bones of Eppillus.

Candles in holders of gilt bronze waited inside the tower. With these the party descended. The uppermost room was a watchpost and rain shelter, the next pair were given over to storage. Farther on they echoed empty; those times were past when treasures of Ys had overflowed into them. Walls sweated, air grew dank, flames streamed smoky, as the stairs went down below the surf.

Finally came a space refurbished. Hidden ducts ventilated the fires of a hypocaust that kept it warm and dry. Statues of the Torchbearers flanked a doorway. A mosaic floor in black and white showed emblems of the first three degrees in the Mysteries. On plastered walls glowed frescoes of the tree that nourished infant Mithras and of His reconciliation with the Sun. Benches stood beneath, and a table bearing food, drink, and utensils for the sacred meal. A new wall with its own door shut off the sanctum. With holy water sprinkled off pine boughs, with the incense of pinecones, with wine and honey upon each tongue, the Gratillonii led the dedication.

Thereafter it was time to go back above and hymn the noonday sun. It glimmered wan, low in the south. Clouds were gathering, wind shrilled, seas ran white-crested.

The men returned to the Cave of Mithras. Only Father, Runner, Persians, and Lions passed through to the sanctuary; the rest had their lesser devotions to perform in the pronaos.

The King of Ys could well honor the God from the East. Here the Dadophori were sculptured again, in their faces, eyes, postures something not quite Greek or Roman, fluid and sleek, like a wave or a seal. Lion-headed Time stood stern in His own marble, serpent-enwrapped. The font was the carven calyx of a flower. The four emblems in the floor led the gaze onward, past benches above which glistened symbols of the planets, to the twin altars at the far end, where Mithras arose from the Rock, and to the high relief of the Bullslaying that filled yonder wall. The ceiling was deep blue, with golden stars. Candles stood ready in sconces, lamps in niches, to give brightness once they were lit. Soon here, too, resin sweetened the air, along with incense.

Pater and Heliodromos trod forward. Together they led the rites.

Afterward came the Sacrifice, for all initiates. On this unique occasion it began with blood. Cynan, having been duly purified, brought in a caged dove which he had gone to fetch in the course of exercises outside. Marcus Gratillonius took it forth and held it tight while Gaius cut its head off with a clean slash and let it bleed into a golden bowl. Cynan bore this and the remains into the pronaos. Tomorrow he, the Occults, and the Ravens would immolate them. Meanwhile the Gratillonii enacted the subjugation and coronation of the Sun by Mithras.

Finally they officiated over the divine meal which the lower ranks served the higher, a foretaste of the soul’s ascent after death. Upon this great occasion it was fare less frugal than customary: beef, subtle seasonings on the vegetables, honeycakes, the best of wines drunk from silver cups. When it was finished, Gaius Valerius Gratillonius gave benediction, and the men departed for the upper earth.

Weather hid the sunset. Nevertheless they said their prayers atop the Raven Tower before they bade one another farewell.

Gratillonius made his voice hearty as he did. Inwardly there remained a wistfulness. He had seen the Spirit enter certain of the worshippers; from Cynan it had fairly flamed. Nothing had touched him akin to the divine fire that lighted his consecration.

Or had it? The God revealed Himself in forms as infinitely various as the forms and signs of love. Was the feeling of completion, of rightness, that Gratillonius did have—was it Mithra’s “Well done” to His soldier, while also reminding him that the establishment of a lonely outpost was not in itself any victory?

Night fell upon son and father as they made their way back to the palace. Wind yelled, drove rain and scud before it, filled streets with chill. Under the sea wall, tide ramped and snarled.

1

The equinoctial gales blew out of Ocean like longings, to wake the soul from winter drowse. When a milder air had borne Marcus off, Gaius Gratillonius felt a redoubled need to be away himself, in action. Luckily—perhaps—there was a call upon him that neither Gallicenae nor Suffetes could deny was urgent. A letter from Maximus had scathingly denounced him for founding a new temple of Antichrist; it had been inevitable that word of that would eventually reach Treverorum. Were it not for pressing demands on his attention, the Augustus wrote, he would recall his prefect, occupy Ys, and extirpate demon worship. As it was, he must content himself with requiring the prompt installation of a new Christian pastor.