Gallicenae (26 page)

Gratillonius and his Queen walked onward along the battlements, past the war engines that slumbered in their housings, almost to the sea gate. There they stood looking outward.

The moon had cleared the towertops. Above the clustered roofs of Ys, they seemed spires of glass, ready to shatter at the least shaking from the sea, upraised out of a stonefield already sunken. Tonight there was not turbulence. The waters swelled and broke and swelled anew, fluid obsidian over which ran mercury.
Hush,
they murmured,
hush-hush-hush.
So clear was the air that Gratillonius saw a spark out yonder that must be light in the building on Sena, where Forsquilis of the Gallicenae held communion with the Gods.

Bodilis took his arm. “Let us take comfort from such great beauty,” she said low.

“Beneath it lies terror,” he answered.

“Great beauty is always terrible. Life is.”

“Why? What have we done—no, not we, you and little Semuramat—that this has happened?” Gratillonius shook his head. “Oh, I know. You, as close as you were to me, must be hit when They struck. What worse loss than you could I suffer?”

“Dahut,” she said.

He snapped after air.

“And you have not lost me,” she went on. “Stop treacling the same ground. You’ve pounded it barren. Let me tell you for the twentieth—or fiftieth or hundredth, but the last time—I remain your Queen Bodilis.”

“Whom I may never again touch in love.”

“That is your choice.”

“My choice?” His gaze sought the Raven Tower, black against the sky. Beyond hulked Cape Rach, and at its end guttered the pharos candle. “My faith. Mother and daughter—Mithras forbids. If I denied Fennalis on that account, how can I do otherwise with you?”

“It would be… bad politics.”

“No politics tonight, no damned politics! This is of the spirit, as well you should know.”

She winced in the colorless light: she, both daughter and granddaughter of Wulfgar. It was not that her mother had sinned with her father. There could be no incest when the Gods decreed the wedding. It was that he, who could not help himself once Their will was upon him, had afterward lost courage to live, and presently lay dead at the feet of Gaetulius.

Gratillonius saw the hurt he had given, caught Bodilis to his breast, and stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, shouldn’t have spoken so to you—you half-sister of Dahilis—” through King Hoel: Dahilis, who perished in giving birth to Dahut.

Bodilis stroked his hair, stepped back, and smiled at him. “I understand. These are roads that double back and back on themselves, aren’t
they? Well, of course I’ll long for you, but we’ll always stay friends, allies; no God commands our hearts.”

“Unless I refuse this marriage. The girl
is
too young. Oh, she’s passed her Rite of Welcome; but so short a time ago, she so small yet and—and frightened.”

“You will be kind to her. You’ve been like the father she never really knew.”

Now he flinched. Casting weakness aside, he said, more calmly than he had said it before, “Best for her, too, if I balk.”

“You would rip Ys apart. This is the holiest rite we were ever given, the renewal of the world.”

“I meant, well, carry out the service, but not c-c-consummate the marriage.”

Bodilis shook her head. “No, you can’t escape that either.”

“I did with Quinipilis and Fennalis.”

“They were past childbearing age.”

“Is Semuramat at it?”

“She will be. And… the bloodied sheet is given the Goddess next morning. No, Gratillonius, dear bewildered man. Unless you’d flee at once, abandon us forever, you must marry Tambilis tomorrow.”

He battered a fist against a merlon. That was the name Semuramat had chosen, to honor her grandmother who died in the horrible reign of Colconor. Such was traditional. Yet the older Tambilis had been the mother of both Bodilis and Dahilis.

“At least this time you’ve said rationally the things you shouted in fragments at the house,” added the Queen. She hesitated, glanced out across Ocean, added low, “We do have tonight left us, you and I.”

A while he stood, hunched over. Moonlight caught a few tears. Finally he shook his head. “No. Your advice is right, hard but right. Then I dare not—”

“You are doubtless wise,” she sighed.

He started back. “Go home, Bodilis,” he said. “Rest yourself as well as you can. Your daughter will need you very much tomorrow.”

She followed. “What of you?” she asked at his back.

He looked straight ahead. “I’ll commandeer a lamp at the tower, and go down into the Mithraeum, and be with my own God.”

4

There was the ceremony in the Temple of Belisama, where vestals sang and the Eight stood veiled together with her who would be the Ninth, flanking the altar behind which lifted images of Maiden, Mother, and Hag. The bride came to the groom, they knelt under the prayers and hymns, rose again when bidden; he lifted her veil while the Sisters raised theirs. “Gratillonius, King of Ys, in homage to the Goddess Who
dwells in her, and in honor to the womanhood that is hers, receive your Queen Tambilis—” Fennalis, the senior, brought the consecrated wine for them to share.

Public coronation and festivity waited until Quinipilis should have had her sea burial. This day the Gallicenae merely accompanied the King to his palace, where a simple meal was set forth. They talked sparingly, Tambilis not at all. What conversation did take place was mostly reminiscence of the departed.

Afterward, one by one, each of the women kissed the girl and, in their differing ways and words, made her welcome, wished her well, promised her their help and love. By tacit agreement, Bodilis came last. The two clung together a short spell. Gratillonius stood aside, alone.

The guests and their attendants bade him goodnight and left. Dusk was blue beyond the doorway. The household staff were now free to come forth and, through the majordomo, request the benediction of the new Queen. “Blessing on you, blessing on you.” Her voice was as thin as the hand with which she touched their heads where they knelt.

Thereafter they escorted the bridal pair to the royal bedchamber. They had cleaned everything that was in it, arrayed green boughs and, in lieu of flowers at this season, clusters of berries. Candles burned in abundance. The broad bedstead carried a richness of furs and embroideries. A table inlaid with nacre held wine, water, fruits, confections. Incense sweetened the air. Frescoes on walls, paintings on shutters, mosaic on floor, gave images of woodland, meadow, lake, sea, cloudscape; beasts real and mythical pranced, swam, flew; youths and maidens were joyful together. Outside, in silence, the stars were coming forth.

The door closed.

Gratillonius turned from it, toward his wife. She stood with arms straight down, fists clenched, staring before her. It came to him that in the chaos of his heart he had not really looked at her. And earlier she had been only Semuramat, daughter of Bodilis, stepdaughter to him, a bright and blithe child with whom he enjoyed passing time whenever he was able. She had, indeed, been like a true older sister to Dahut, more and more so as she blossomed toward womanhood.

At thirteen years of age, she reached not quite to his throat, and much of that height was leg. The rest of her seemed to be mainly eyes, underneath formally dressed hair which had changed from the gold of childhood to a light brown. They were the deep blue of her mother’s, those eyes, or of Dahilis’s or Dahut’s. Her features were delicate, lips always slightly parted over teeth. Because she was often outdoors, summer had tinged her skin and dusted freckles across the tip-tilted nose. Bridal gown and jeweled pectoral hung heavy from her shoulders.

Remembering his first night with Guilvilis, he willed resolution upon himself. There was that which must be done, and shilly-shallying about
it would be no kindness. He went to her, smiled, and took her hands. They lay cold in his. “Well, dear,” he said, “here we are.”

She remained mute. Releasing her left hand, he brought his right under her chin and raised it until their gazes must meet. She blinked and breathed hard. “Be at ease,” he said. “You know your old friend. He hasn’t changed. I wanted this not myself.” Louder than intended: “O Mithras, nay!” Softly again: “We’ve had a duty laid on us. We’ll carry it out like good soldiers, you and I, eh?”

She nodded. It caused his hand, yielding, to slide down her neck. How frail it was, how silken the skin. A blue pulse throbbed.

“Come,” he said, “let’s be seated, let’s drink to a happier morrow.” Let her become warmed, at rest, wine-dazed.

She ran tongue over lips. “My lord is, is gracious,” she whispered.

He guided her to a settee before the table and, with a faint pressure, caused her to sit down, before he himself did. “What nonsense,” he chided, attempting laughter. “We’ll have no’my lord’ any longer. You’re a Queen of Ys, Tambilis. You’ll be a guiding star to the people, a healer, a strong voice in council; you’ll command wind and wave; you’ll be—with the Goddess. Better I call you ‘my lady.’”

He filled two silver goblets, diluting in neither, and urged one into her clasp. “Drink,” he said. She obeyed. He saw her grimace and realized that the wine by itself, dry as most Ysans preferred, was harsh on a palate that had usually known water. “I’m sorry. Here, I’ll pour some back and weaken the rest. I do think if you take a draught or so you’ll feel calmer. And, uh, behold, wouldn’t you like these raisins, these sweetmeats?”

Partaking did seem to help. After a few minutes Semuramat—Tambilis gave him a steady regard and said with childish seriousness: “Mother told me you would be kind.”

“I promised her. I promise you. As far as lies in my power, I will.” And may you never know how I miss her.

“Then do what you shall, Grallon.”

His face heated. “Wait, wait, no haste, let’s talk a bit, let me tell you something about what to await—”

He avoided grave matters but bespoke feasts, games, foreign visitors with wonderful stories. She drank faster, without noticing. A sparkle awoke. She leaned into the crook of his arm, snuggled against him, as she had done when she was a small girl and he yarning to her in the presence of her mother.

Desire flamed up.

No! he snarled to the Power. You’ll have Your way with us, that’s fated, but not yet.

“What’s the matter?” she asked when his words stopped.

“Naught, naught.” He went on with the tale. His loins raged.

—“That had better be all, darling,” he said around the dryness in his mouth. Thunders went through his breast. “You need your sleep.”

Her nod wobbled, her voice was slurred: “Aye. Thank you, kind Grallon. Now make me a woman.”

She caught her wits back to her. “First I should pray to the Goddess, oughtn’t I?”

He ordered his arm, that had been about to close tight, to let her go. He stood aside while she went to pray. He had long since had images of the Three removed from this room, but she found a nymph among the revelers who looked older and more modest than the rest. Her slight form took stance before the picture, she raised her hands, and Gratillonius stood fighting off the Bull. He heard:

“Belisama, to Your keeping

I entrust my soul this night.

Guard Your child while she is sleeping;

Wake me to the morning light.”

Tambilis turned toward her husband, held out her arms. He went to her through the roaring. She did not know anything else than to let him undress her. Tortoiseshell comb and ivory pins clinked to the floor. He had no skill in loosening hair, and she giggled a bit, while crying a bit, when he tugged a bit too hard. The pectoral and golden bracelets dropped with a clang. The girdle slithered aside like a snake. He shook as he undid the dress and pulled the undergarment off over her head.

Thereupon she stood with an uncertain smile on her lips. Hands flitted for a moment, seeking to conceal, but drew aside. As yet, he saw, her figure was almost a boy’s. The crescent of the Sign burned red between tiny breasts. Hips and buttocks had, though, begun to fill out, and above her thighs was a shadowiness that caught glints of light.

Cast her down and have her!

Gratillonius stepped back. “I’ll first blow out the candles,” he said somehow.

Did the flush upon her cheeks pale? “Nay, please, can we keep them?” she asked. Thus could she see what happened, and maintain bravery.

“If, if you wish.” As quickly as he could, he disrobed. When she saw him in his maleness, she gasped, quailed, rallied, stood fast. “Be not afraid. I’ll be gentle.”

He led her to the bed, drew blankets aside, guided her down, joined her, pulled the covers over them both. She shivered in his clasp. He stood on the wall against the Bull, while he murmured and stroked and kissed. Finally, of course, he must take her.

He
was
gentle. That much victory did he win over the Gods.

It hurt her nonetheless. She shed more blood than was common, and could not help sobbing afterward. He held her close. “There, there,” he crooned in her ear, “’tis done, you’ll soon be well again, and we
need do this no more until you are ready for it, years hence. I will not press you. Sleep, child.”

That also was territory he could defend.

1

“Maybe here at last well find peace,” Drusus said low.

“I can’t promise that,” Gratillonius told him. “At best, you’ll have to work for it, and most likely fight, too.”

Drusus sighed. “It’d be worth it. If I could know my kids, anyhow, will have a chance to live their own lives.”

Gratillonius regarded his comrade of the Wall with compassion. The centurion of the Sixth Victrix seemed grotesquely out of place in this frescoed, mosaic-floored room. The tunic upon his stocky form was patched and faded. A deep inward weariness bowed the shoulders and looked out of the weatherbeaten, ill-barbered face. There was even a listlessness in his grip around the wine cup that rested on his knee where he sat.

Through doors open to the summer’s warmth drifted the sounds of Aquilo, voices, footfalls, hoofbeats, wheel-creak, hammer-clash, together with odors of smoke and of green growth beyond the town. Those too seemed remote from the visitor.