Gallicenae (36 page)

And so in her twelfth springtime she embarked upon womanhood.

It happened when she was staying with Tambilis. Gratillonius did not these days, because Tambilis was near term with her second child, whom she meant to name Estar. Dahut came to her room by dawnlight, shook her awake, and said somberly, “I have bled.”

“What?” Tambilis sat up, rubbed her eyes, looked around. “Oh, my dear!” She surged from her bed and hugged the girl close to her. “Welcome! Be not afraid. Rejoice. Come, let me see.”

In the guest chamber she examined the cloth that had been for some time laid atop Dahut’s nether sheet. A spot marked it, brilliantly red against white, however dim the chamber still was. “Aye, this is your first coursing ever,” Tambilis said. “May they be many and all easy. How feel you?”

“I am well.” Grudgingly, Dahut pulled off her nightgown at Tambilis’s behest and let the woman show her how to wash herself and attach a pad.

“Now you remember what you must do,” Tambilis chattered. “And me, oh, the glad load of duties on me! What do you wish for breakfast, darling?”

Dahut shrugged. Well, girls were often upset on this day of their lives. Yet Dahut was calm enough, withdrawn into herself.

“We shall have
such
a festival! We begin with our prayers, of course. I’ll help you dress.”

Tambilis kept her image of Belisama in a room at the rear of the house. It was a miniature of the Goddess as Maiden, carved out of narwhal ivory and set in a niche painted deep blue with stars. Little of Quinipilis remained in this house; Tambilis favored things bright and dainty. She held up the spotted cloth as she and Dahut gave thanks.

Now the girl did not change lodging but stayed where she was, avoiding company, saying her orisons and meditating upon the mysteries. When the flow had stopped, she bathed in water not from a cistern-well but piped from the Tower, to which it had flowed down the canal from the Nymphaeum. Then it was time for celebration.

Sumptuously arrayed, Dahut went forth from the house into a glorious morning full of songbirds. Ocean sparkled beyond spires washed by
last night’s rain. Flowers and blossoms dappled the valley and its guardian hills. Airs blew gentle. King Gratillonius waited outside in full regalia, love and pride radiating from him, together with all the Gallicenae in their blue-and-white attire of priestesses. The magnates of the city were there too, surrounded by their families. Light blazed off metal as legionaries drew swords and shouted,
“Ave!”
while Ysan marines crashed pike butts down on paving stones.

Musicians played fore and aft of the procession that went to the Temple of Belisama. Ordinary folk flocked to join it and follow it into the halidom. In that twilit chamber they stood quiet. From the aisle, vestals sang praise.

The Nine stationed themselves behind the altar, before the tall images of Maiden, Mother, and Hag. Dahut knelt and asked their blessing. She received wine, a drop of ox blood, and salt. When she had laid her garland on the block, Fennalis, senior priestess, placed on her brows a coronet of silver studded with emeralds and rubies. In lieu of her mother, her father bowed to the Triune and put a toy into her hands. It was one among many he had made, chosen by her because she was particularly fond of it, a gaily painted wooden horse with jointed legs. This too she laid on the altar and dedicated to the Goddess. That took but a single word: “Farewell.”

Again outside after the service, she received the embraces and congratulations of her kin, the cheers of the crowd. She responded sparingly, though she did dimple up repeated smiles. Thereafter Gratillonius brought the party to the palace for a feast. At this she had a final tradition to observe, albeit an event regarded as merry rather than solemn. She gave away the rest of her playthings to her younger half-sisters.

Who should receive what had taken forethought. Bodilis’s Una, Guilvilis’s Sasai, Lanarvilis’s Julia, Maldunilis’s Zisa, Forsquilis’s Nemeta, Vindilis’s Augustina were close to Dahut in years. Guilvilis’s Antonia and Camilla were not far behind either; but her Valeria was only five, while Tambilis’s Semuramat was two—and that last mother claimed a rattle also, because it was lucky for an unborn child to receive a gift.

Thus went the Welcoming of Dahut. Commoners did likewise for their girls, though usually the blessing was by a minor priestess at a small sanctuary and the meal afterward modest. It was all the same in the sight of the Goddess.

For royal children, though, unto the third generation, more waited.

It happened quietly. In the morning Dahut rode to the Nymphaeum with an escort and a Queen. This one’s task would be to stay there for a few days, consecrate the maiden a full vestal, and teach her certain secrets. Dahut would remain longer and receive training in her new duties. Thenceforward she would be at the Nymphaeum a sennight each lunar month, otherwise at the Temple in Ys, as housekeeper, gardener, participant in rites, and student. She would have ample leisure
and a stipend which would enable her to live where and how she chose in the city, provided she remain pure. Her service was to end on her eighteenth birthday. Then she would be at liberty to marry, enroll as a subordinate priestess, pursue an independent career, do whatever she wished. Any daughters she might bear, and any daughters of these, must in their turn become vestals like her, enjoying the same advantages—unless, before the term of the vow closed, the Sign should come.

Bodilis had volunteered to be her sponsor at the hallowing. She had been half-sister to Dahut’s mother.

The day of arrival went to settling in. Each virgin had a tiny room to herself. A newcomer was subject to japery and giggles in dining commons, but not too many questions. After all, she had been here before, Dahut bore it—neither cheerily nor ungraciously; aldofly—and retired early.

Her religious induction came the next morning, a brief ceremony. Later various instructresses interviewed her. They had already met the new votary, but hoped for closer acquaintance and some idea as to what kinds of education promised most for her. In the afternoon was a dinner more elegant than usual here, where everyday fare was simple. Later, until dark, pipe, drum, sistrum, and voice gave melody for dances on the greensward.

The morning after that, Bodilis drew Dahut aside. “Before I go home, I am to explain to you the secrets,” she said. “They’re not really close-veiled. That would be impossible.” She smiled. “But tradition insists that certain knowledge may pass only between Queen and vestal, and otherwise not be spoken aloud. Let’s avail ourselves of this beautiful weather while it holds. Go dress yourself for a ramble and meet me.”

Dahut obeyed happily. When she and Bodilis had left the building, she could not forbear to prance about and bay the Wolf Chant. “Ah, you are young still, sweetling,” the woman murmured. “Come along.”

They took a trail uphill into the woods. A rivulet gurgled beside it. Birds trilled. Squirrels raced ruddy. Sunlight filled leaves with green fire and spattered on the shade beneath. Warmth and savor steamed from the earth.

“There is naught arcane about most of what I shall tell you,” Bodilis said. “Special prayers. Cantrips to ward off certain misfortunes and certain creatures. Minor medical skills; we
are
healers, we royal women, though lay physicians practice too. At the least, dignity requires we be able to treat our own lesser ailments. It begins with knowing how to brew a tisane of willow against cramps, albeit many a goodwife can do the same. But let us commence with the greatest and holiest of all, the gift that the Goddess bestowed upon Brennilis and those who should come after.”

They emerged where the hillside shouldered out to form a hollow. The spring that fed the stream was not much farther up, and here the water spread some three feet wide, ankle-deep, glittery beneath the
sun. That light laid gold over the crowns of the beeches, hazels, and thorns walling in the grassy space. Masses of convolvulus clung to their innermost boles. Within their circle, blue stars sprang from plants with hairy stems and leaves, a cubit tall.

Bodilis signed herself. She knelt before a patch of them. “Here,” she said, her tone now grave. “Look closely.”

Dahut did perfunctory reverence and hunkered impatient. “Why, that’s just borage,” she said. “They use it for flavor and color in food. It helps against fever. What else?”

“It is the Herb,” Bodilis told her.

Dahut reared back. “What? This?”

Bodilis nodded. “Aye. Our name for it is ‘ladygift.’ If a Queen of Ys eats a spoonful of these flowers, fresh or dried, a small spoonful, she does not conceive that day. When she wishes a child, she need simply leave off the use—” a fleeting, wistful smile—“and open herself to the King, if she be not too old. It is the bestowal of Belisama, so that the Nine may have sovereignty over their wombs and thus freedom to uphold the law of Ys against any of our random Kings who proves to be bad.”

Dahut’s fingers stole forward to touch the plant. “But this,” she said, “only this? I thought belike ’twas magical vervain.”

Bodilis chuckled. “Not that, of all plants! It works to cure barrenness.”

“But the Herb should grow in a sacred place—the Wood of the King?”

Both now kneeling, Bodilis took the hands of Dahut in hers, caught and held the maiden’s gaze, said slowly: “All the world is sacred, and perhaps the commonplace most.

“The knowledge of what ladygift actually is has gone about underground—that could never be stopped—but ’tis a thing folk do not bespeak. For the Herb, not mere borage but the Herb, is for the Nine alone. To every woman else, this plant is what you said, a simple, a seasoning, a decoration, naught else.

“Remember, Dahut, you must remain chaste until the end of your service. Else the wrath of the Gods would be upon you, and as for the law of man, you could be thrown off the sea cliffs or whipped from Ys into the wilderness. It has happened in the past.

“The ladygift will cease to ward you if you pass your vestalhood unchosen. After that, you must care for yourself, or endure, as has ever been the lot of woman.

“But if ere then the Sign appears between your breasts and you become a Queen: then before each time the King comes to you, or you think he may, until you desire to bear his child—take a few of these little flowers, and kiss them, and swallow them. For the kisses of the Gallicenae raise the Power.”

2

Very early in the shipping season, a large and well-laden merchant vessel stood out from Ys for Hivernia. The crew did not expect to have need for their fighting skills. Strengthened and vigorously used by King Grallon, the navy had scoured these waters clean. Beyond the Dumnonian end of Britannia there was a chance of pirates. However, Tommaltach had assured the captain it was most unlikely that they could bring anything more to bear than a few currachs; and such would not attack a ship with high freeboard, war engines, armored men. The peace of King Conual was spreading fast across Mumu, where folk preferred trade to war anyway. Two years ago, Niall, the King in Mide, had wasted Roman territories. Since then, though, his attention was aimed north; the question was not whether he would fall on the Ulati, but when.

No prudent man would have fared just on the word of a young barbarian. It was borne out by other reports that had come to Ys as traffic between his people and the city grew in erratic fashion. Besides, Tommaltach maqq Donngalii was no ordinary adventurer. His father was king of a tuath and a friend of Conual Corcc. Tommaltach, age about sixteen, was a blooded warrior when he joined a venture to Ys, less in hopes of profiting from gold, sheepskins, and salt pork than to see the marvels. He had taken the trouble beforehand to acquire some of the language, as well as basic Latin. Meeting him, Rufinus readily persuaded him to stay through the winter. During those months, the Gael living in Rufinus’s aerie, the two of them had grown close; and Rufinus had gotten a working knowledge of Scotic speech.

After the stark headlands at Armorica, his goal seemed gentle, lushly fruitful, incredibly green. The Ysans anchored in a small bay, made camp ashore, gave presents to natives who approached. Tommaltach dickered for horses. The crew loaded three of these and put Roman saddles on the rest. It took a little while to get the animals used to that. Leaving most of their shipmates on guard, Rufinus and Tommaltach rode off at the head of ten. The journey to Castellum took a pair of easy days, broken at one of the free hostels which kings here endowed.

Rufinus observed carefully as he fared, and beswarmed his guide with questions. This was pastureland where it was not forest, sheep and cattle at graze, only a few small and scattered fields sown in rye, barley, oats. Some wattle-and-daub dwellings stood isolated, but most seemed to cluster inside earthen ringwalls with palisades on top. Towns did not exist. Armies were wild rabble, virtually without body protection, led by noblemen in chariots such as were four hundred years obsolete in Britannia and Gallia.

Withal, throughout Hivernia—Ériu, its people called it—arts and crafts excelled, while respect for learning was so high that the person of a druid or poet was inviolate. Women were almost as free as in Ys, infinitely better off than anywhere in the Roman world. Aside from
slaves, who were mainly captives taken in raids, the relationship between master and follower, landholder and tenant, was contractual, either party able to abrogate it at will. Folkmoot and
brithem
—judge—gave out a rough justice; wrongdoing was generally compounded by payment, and a rich man must give more redress than a poor man. When this failed, frequently the aggrieved person sat down at the door of the other and fasted until the latter, who was supposed to starve himself also, yielded. “Unless, I imagine, he outlasts the plaintiff,” Rufinus drawled. “Still, you Scoti are not quite the two-legged wolves the Romans think you.”

“Ah, it’s grand to be home, that it is,” Tommaltach exulted. “Not but what I don’t mean to be often again in Ys, for the exploring of its wonders and to carouse with you, darling.”

Rufinus sighed to himself. This race habitually talked in extravagances. The youth had no idea what they implied to his listener. Tommaltach was beautiful: medium tall, wide-shouldered but supple, the snubnosed, blue-eyed countenance as fair-skinned as a girl’s except for a breath of beard, under a tumble of black hair.