Gallicenae (25 page)

He upended his cup and filled it anew. “The Wall!” he shouted. “We stood on the Wall under Maximus. My buddies—How many went south with him? What’s going to become of them? Those are men of
mine.
I barracked with them, and pounded the roads and dug the trenches and fought the raiders and diced and caroused with them, and after I’d made centurion I led them, punished them when they needed it, heard out their troubles when they needed that—my Second Augusta and—and there were others with us on the Wall that year, Corentinus. Like Drusus of the Sixth; we saved each other’s lives, d’you hear? So they fought for our old Duke, and lost, and what’s that Emperor who killed Maximus and Victor out of hand, what’s he going to do about them?”

“You are getting drunk in a hurry,” Corentinus observed in the sailor’s lingo he used when he wanted to.

“I don’t expect Theodosius can massacre them,” Gratillonius went on. “Too many. But what, then? Think he’ll send them back to their bases in Britannia, Gallia, wherever? I think not. He’ll be afraid of them, and want to make an example, too. He’ll discharge them, maybe. And what are they supposed to do then? They’ll lose their veteran’s benefits. Are they supposed to starve? Become serfs? Join the Bacaudae? What?”

“A knotty question, in truth,” Corentinus agreed. “Christ bade us forgive our enemies, and I should hope Theodosius will, if only for his own soul’s sake. But those men
were
mutineers, in a sense, and they’d too likely be an unsettling element in the army. You feel Maximus should simply have been exiled. But how can thousands be?”

Gratillonius straightened. Wine splashed from his cup as he crashed it to the table. “Here!” he exclaimed. “By the Bull, you’ve hit on it!
Armorica’s half empty. What we need most is more people, to make their homes and stand guard over them. And there we’ve got those fighting men, and here we’ve got a peninsula at the far end of the Empire where they couldn’t possibly be any threat to our overlords.”

Excitement seized Corentinus likewise. “Write to the Duke and the governor at once,” he said. “Urge them to propose it to the Emperors. Offer the influence, experience, help of Ys in getting settlement started. God willing, you’ll have a glad acceptance.”

“I’ll write tomorrow,” Gratillonius roared, “and afterward tell the Council. Now let’s drink and sing songs and remember Maximus and all old comrades.”

Corentinus smiled—wistfully? “I may not do that myself. But I’ll keep you company if you like.”

They had been at it for a while, as the day darkened further, when a knock on the door brought Gratillonius there. He opened it and stood aside, still steady on his feet though the flush of wine was on his cheeks and the odor of it on his breath.

Bodilis entered. Her hair hung as wet as her garments. The hands with which she took his were cold.

“I thought you should hear this from me, beloved,” she said, oblivious to anybody else. “Word reached me, I went to see, and, and, I think Quinipilis is dying.”

1

The agony that speared through breast and left arm, the stranglehold that closed on a heart flying wild, gave way to quietness. She slept a great deal, though lightly, often rousing from dreams. Her pulse fluttered weak, like a wounded bird, and she had no strength. Nonetheless she whispered her commands that she be helped out of bed for bathing and necessities. Such times left her exhausted for hours, but her head remained always clear. Besides the wedded couple who were her only servants, the other Gallicenae insisted on abiding in her house, each a day and night in turn. They allowed no more than very brief visits by the many who came, nor did they themselves tax her with much talk. Often, though, they read aloud to her from books she loved.

Rainstorms gave way to fog. As summer waned, Ys lay in a chill dankness and a white blindness that seemed to go on without end. Quinipilis could not get warm, even when the hypocaust had made
the floor too hot for bare feet. The Sisters kept her tucked in fleece blankets and rubbed her hands and feet—carefully, as deformed and tender as those had become. They brought soup and upheld her maned skull while spooning it into her.

Innilis had musicians on call, for such times as harp, flute, song might briefly cheer. Bodilis translated some lyrics of Sappho into Ysan, because Quinipilis had admired those she already knew. Whenever she rallied a little, however, the dowager was apt to ask for something more vigorous, renditions from the Greek, original in Latin or Ysan: the clangor of Homer and Vergilius, sternness of Aeschylus and Euripides, comedy of Philemon and Plautus, or (wickedly grinning) the bawdiest bits from Aristophanes and Catullus, as well as Utican the Wanderer and Witch-Hanai of this city. A couple of times she herself recited snatches of Gallic or Saxon.

That was near the beginning of her invalidity. Soon she slipped deeper down, and mostly lay with her thoughts and memories.

Then on the ninth morning she told Fennalis, who had the watch: “Bring my Sisters hither.”

“Nay, you’d wear yourself out. I can scarce hear your voice, though you’ve had a night’s rest. Take care so you can get well.”

Wrinkles formed a hideous frown. Somehow the words loudened enough. “Stop that. I am not in my dotage, thank you. I am outworn, for which there is no healing.” The scowl turned into laughter lines. “I’ve somewhat to convey to the lot of you—at once, ere the wheels altogether fall off the old oxcart. Prepare me your strongest strengthening draught.”

“That could easily kill you.”

“Another day or two would do that anyhow, with naught to show for it.” Quinipilis must halt a while to breathe. Her fingers plucked at the covers. “Fennalis, I conjure… I conjure all of you… by Our Lady of Passage.”

The short gray woman wrestled with herself a moment before she nodded, bit her lip to hold it still, and scuttled out.

Presently there were seven crowded at the bedside. Guilvilis was absent, having the Vigil on Sena. Forsquilis, who was this day’s presiding high priestess, had come directly from the Temple of Belisama in her blue gown and white headdress. Innilis clutched the hand of Vindilis, like a child her mother’s. Maldunilis wept, striving to hold it quiet and not blubber. Lanarvilis kept stoic. Bodilis kissed the withered lips and stood aside. Fennalis plumped pillows, got Quinipilis half sitting up amidst them, fetched the decoction of foxglove, willow bark, and herbs more curious, held the cup while it went its way, took a post hard by.

Quinipilis’s breath quickened and grew noisy. That was almost the single sound. Fog made windowpanes featureless. Within, candles kept shadows at bay, though they filled every corner. A few things were clear to see—a vase of aster and fern from the woods, shelved toys
that had been her daughters’ when they were small, the hanging sword of King Wulfgar who was her first man, in a niche with a taper at its feet a statuette of Belisama as a young matron holding Her infant. Air lay overheated and sullen.

A hint of blood mounted through the waxiness on Quinipilis. Her glance brightened and steadied. When she spoke, it was clearly: “Welcome. Thank you for coming.”

“How could we not come, mother, mother to us all?” replied Vindilis.

“This is our goodbye, of course.” Quinipilis’s voice was matter-of-fact. She raised a palm against the protest she saw in some of their faces. “Nay, we’ve scant time left. Let’s spill none of it in foolishness. For myself, I’m more than ready to go to my rest. But first I’ve a thing to deal with—or, rather, leave to you.”

“Hush,” Forsquilis bade the Sisters. “The Spirit is upon her.”

Quinipilis shook her head and coughed out a chuckle. “I misbelieve that, my dear. Tis no more than the same vixen that ever made her den in me.” She grew serious. “Yet lying here quietly, so quietly, feeling time slip away—that gives one to think, in between the visits of the living and the dead.”

The high-crowned head nodded. “You’ve wondered whom the Gods will choose to reign after you, and why.”

Quinipilis sighed. “Aye. I told you I am content to go. But I would have been earlier. Or I could have stayed longer, equally content to watch the seasons pass and the children grow. Is it chance that I must depart just now? I fear very much the Gods are not done with our King.”

“Nay!” broke from Bodilis. She slammed control down on herself. “If They are still angry because of—that unfulfilled sacrifice and—other matters—why have They not struck him already?”

Quinipilis closed her eyes. The power of the medicine was flagging. “You can guess?”

“Mayhap I can,” Lanarvilis said slowly. “This year agone has been the most dangerous for Ys since the year he came. The Empire has been in upheaval while the barbarians snuffed blood and grew hungry. Then the Imperial peace returned, but the victors would fain destroy everything Ys has ever been. Who could cope save Gratillonius? Even his man Rufinus who should have died in the Wood, Rufinus has proven an instrument for him to begin shoring up our bulwarks. Therefore the Gods have stayed Their hands.”

“Until now,” whispered Forsquilis.

Quinipilis reopened her eyes. “So I have thought,” she told them. “Also this have I thought, that They cannot yet spare him, but They will seek to humble him; and in that They will fail, but They can wound him terribly. He is a good man, under his iron—”

“He came to me yesterday, straight from having been with you,” said Bodilis, “and that whole eventide he was swallowing tears.”

“Stand by him, Sisters,” Quinipilis pleaded. “Whatever happens, never forsake him.”

“We can ill do that, like it or not,” said Vindilis.

“W-w-we did bring him!” blurted Maldunilis. “We made him King. Could we have a better one? Nay!”

Fennalis began to reply but thought better of it.

“Help him,” Quinipilis bade them. “Promise me. Give me your oaths.”

“By the Three I swear,” said Bodilis immediately.

Vindilis pinched lips together before she lifted her arms and exclaimed, “Hold! Hard is this to say, but bethink you, we cannot foreknow—”

Quinipilis gasped. She slumped into the pillows. Her eyes rolled back. Her breath raced in and out like riptides between reefs, then died away to nearly nothing, then raced, then died. Froth bubbled around her lips.

“Goddess, nay!” screamed Fennalis. She flung herself down on the bed. Her fingers sought to clear the foam away, let air get through. “Quinipilis, darling Quinipilis, are you there, can you hear me?” Only the rattling and whistling answered.

Soon they ended. Fennalis rose. Having signed herself, she beckoned to Vindilis, the blood daughter, who trod forward to fold the hands, bind up the jaw, close the eyes.

2

Lir’s fog did not reach far inland. At the Nymphaeum, the end of the rains had brought a last upwelling of warmth and lightfulness. The forest that decked the heights glowed a molten green, a thousand hues which a breeze made ripple and weave. Likewise did the lawn in the hollow drink the sunshine that spilled on it from among a few swan’s-wing clouds, and give it back to heaven. Blooms had mostly died, but leaves in flowerbeds and hedgerows lived yet. Brooklets glittered and chimed on their way to the glimmery pond. In the shadow of the linden above the sacred spring, the image of the Mother smiled mysterious.

Forth at noontide from the colonnade of the building came certain vestals, as was appointed for this phase of the moon nearest autumnal equinox. Their garments were as white as the walls and pillars. Their hair flowed loose and their feet danced nimble, for they were young girls, less than three years into their service—descendants of Queens in Ys unto the third generation, whereafter the Goddess released a lineage. More fully clad, a virgin near the end of her term led them, as did an aging woman who had returned to the Temple and become a minor priestess when she was widowed.

Blue sheened on peacocks; three spread their tails, like a salute of banners. The grown maiden put syrinx to lips and sounded the tune,
while the girls joined hands and skipped the measure, on their way to do reverence before the eidolon. Their voices rose clear as the pipe-notes.

“Belisama, all-sustaining,

Lady of the golden year,

Now that summertime is waning,

Guard this world You hold so dear.

Soon the leaves must fall to cover

Earth grown weary of the sun.

Bring our lord, our King, our lover

Home to us when sleep is done!”

Suddenly one of them screamed.

The music stopped, the dance jarred to a halt. “What is it?” cried the maiden. “Come here, sweetling.” She held out her arms.

The girl touched her bosom, “It, it burned,” she half sobbed. “For a heartbeat, it burned.” Her eyes widened. Her face went chalky. “I’m well again. I am.”

The old woman approached her through the silent stares. “We must look at this.” She took the small hand. “Fear naught. We love you.”

The maiden mustered courage. “We have our rite to finish,” she told the rest. “Follow me onward. Sing your song. Remember, we are children of the Goddess.”

The procession resumed, raggedly. Meanwhile the priestess hastened toward the Nymphaeum. Semuramat, daughter of Queen Bodilis by King Hoel, stumbled at her side.

3

The fog lifted. After sunset, a nearly full moon dazzled away from itself the stars that otherwise crowded heaven. So wild was Gratillonius that at length Bodilis suggested they leave her house. “Space, air, a wholesome tiredness of the body, and then you may perhaps win to sleep for a while, my poor beloved.” They dressed warmly and went forth.

Silence enwrapped them, save for their footfalls on frosty paving and for the sounds of the sea, rising as they drew nearer. He had ended the ravings and curses and desperate schemes he brought her after the word reached him. Their breaths smoked wan, like the utterances of ghosts. Walls shadowed streets from the moon but not from starshine. Man and woman found their way readily down the lanes that twisted from Elven Gardens, and thence along broad Lir Way, over the deserted Forum, south on Taranis Way to Goose Fair plaza, across it and the pomoerium to a staircase and thus up onto the city wall. Guards at the Raven Tower challenged them; armor shimmered icy in the moonbeams from beyond eastern hills. Recognizing who came, the marines saluted and let them by. Under the high helmets, awe was on faces.