Gallicenae (44 page)

“You will, when we’ve time and safety,” Niall interrupted. “Tonight be short about it. Here is a damnable spot to be meeting.”

It had been the best they could do. Niall, waging war, landing where he saw it would be possible and striking inland as far and savagely as would leave him a line of retreat, Niall could no more foresee where he would camp than could peacefully, inquisitively ranging Uail. Maia was a fixed point, not closely under the Roman eye; men of Condacht and Mide had bespoken this tavern in the past; they could agree to be there at the half moon after equinox. Nonetheless Uail had had to abide two evenings until Niall, delayed by weather, arrived.

Uail shrugged. “As my lord wills. No men I sounded out, officers or common soldiers, none of them had any word from on high. We wouldn’t await that, would we, now? But somehow they were all sure. The word has seeped through. Rome will fight one more season, hoping to have Britannia cleared of the likes of us by then. But no longer. Nor is there any thought of striking at Ériu. They will be needing the troops too badly across the Channel.”

Niall nodded. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “I looked for the same. It sings together with what I learned myself, raiding them this year. They were never determined in pursuit when we withdrew. They’ve not moved against Dál Riata, nest of hawks though it is. We took in deserters, who told us they had no wish to fare off to an unknown battle away in Europe. Oh, it’s clear, it’s clear, we have nothing to fret about in our homeland from Rome.”

“That is good to know, well worth the trouble of finding out.”

Niall’s fist thudded down on the board. His voice roughened. “I should have been aware already. I should never have havered like this, letting years slip by—” Abruptly he rose. His mane brushed the ceiling. “Come, Uail. Toss off that horse piss if you must and let’s begone.”

The mariner gaped. “What? It’s a wild night out.”

“And I’m wild to be off. The fleet lies on the north side of the firth, in a eove where no Roman comes any longer, two days’ walk for us from here. If we start at once, we can pass Luguvallium in the dark.”

“That would be wise,” Uail agreed. Yonder city was the western strongpoint of the Wall. Both men took their cloaks and trod forth.

The rain was not too cold nor the night too black for such as they. Kilts wrapped them from shoulder to knee; at their belts hung dirks, and pouches with a bit of dried meat and cheese; once they were beyond the Roman outposts, no one would venture to question them.

They had walked a while when Niall said in a burst: “I have need of haste, Uail maqq Carbri. I hear time baying behind me, a pack of hounds that has winded the wolf. Too long have I waited. There is Emain Macha to bring down, and afterward Ys.”

3

Among Celts, the first evening of Hunter’s Moon awakened madness. In Ys, folk no longer believed that the doors between worlds stood open then—if only because in Ys, they were never quite shut—but farmers and gardeners made sure their last harvests had been gathered, while herdsmen brought their beasts under roofs and seamen lashed a besom to every craft not in a boathouse. Within the city, it was an occasion for unbridled revel.

Weather permitting, the Fire Fountain played. Masked, grotesquely costumed—stag, horse, goat, goblin, leather phallus wagging gigantic; nymph, witch, mermaid, hair flying loose, breasts bared and painted—the young cavorted drunken through the streets. Workers of every kind were off duty, and none need do reverence to lord or lady. The older and higher-born watched the spectacle for a time, perhaps, before withdrawing to entertainments they had prepared for themselves behind their own walls. Those might or might not be decorous. Drink flowed, music taunted, and no encounter between man and woman, whomever they might be wedded to, was reckoned entirely real.

Certain classes observed restraint. The King kept Watch in the Wood as usual. Such of the Gallicenae ashore as were not with him held a banquet, and gave a prayer for the ninth out on Sena. Down in Scot’s Landing, the Ferriers of the Dead bolted their cottage doors and their families practiced rites that were austere; these were too close to the unknown for aught else.

Yet all, all was pagan.

Corentinus left the torchlight and tumult behind him. He had offered a Mass and sent his congregation to bed. Now he was alone.

Out Northbridge Gate he went, and up Redonian Way across Point Vanis. His long legs crunched the distance. Save for him, road and headland reached empty. This night was clear, quiet, and cold. Stars glimmered manifold before him, Hercules, the Dragon, Cassiopeia, at the end of the Lesser Bear the Lodestar. The Milky Way was dimmed by the high-riding moon and its frost halo. His breath gusted white. Grass, brush, stones lay hoar.

Where the road bent east above the former maritime station, Corentinus left it and made his way west. Soon he came to an outlook over the sea, vast and dark and slowly breathing. A grave was at his feet. He knew the headstone. The one who rested here was no Christian, but had been an honest soldier. This did not seem the worst possible place to stop.

Corentinus lifted his arms and his gray head skyward. “O God,” he called in anguish, “Maker and Master of the Universe; Christ Jesus, only begotten Son, God and man together, Who died for us and rose again that we might live; Holy Spirit—have mercy on poor Ys. Leave it not in its midnight. Leave it not with its demons that it worships. They mean well, God. They are not evil. They are only blind, and in the power of Satan. My dearest wish is to help them. Help me, God!”

After a silence, he bent his neck and bit his lip. “But if they are not worthy of a miracle,” he groaned, “if there can be no redemption, and the abomination must be cleansed as it was in Babylon—let it be quickly, God, let it be final, and the well-meaning people and the little children not be enslaved or burnt alive, but go down at once to whatever awaits them.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”

The declaration of King Gratillonius hit the vernal Council of Suffetes like a stone from a siege engine. As prefect of Rome, he told them,
he had lately received official word of that which he had been awaiting. The augmented legions in Britannia would take the field again this year, but only for a month or two. Thereafter they would return to the Continent and march south. Anticipating renewed barbarian incursions, mounting in scope and ferocity as time went on, Gratillonius wanted the shipyard of Ys to produce more naval vessels. Yet those would not become Ysan. That would be too provocative. Instead, he would offer them to the Duke of the Armorican Tract, to go under the command of the latter. Their crews would train Roman recruits to man them.

Outrage erupted. Hannon Baltisi, Lir Captain, roared that never would men of Ys serve under such masters, Christian dogs who would forbid their worship, who did not even ask the God’s pardon before emptying a slop jar into His sea. Cothortin Rosmertai, Lord of Works, protested that such a program would disrupt plans, dishonor commitments to build merchantmen; in this time of prosperity, the facilities were bespoken far in advance. Bomatin Kusuri, Mariner Councillor, questioned where enough sailors could be found, when trading, whaling, slaving, even fishing paid better than armed service in the Empire did.

Adruval Tyri, Sea Lord, maintained that the King was right about the menace of Scoti and Saxons. They would not be content to rape Britannia but would seek back to the coasts of Gallia. Yet Adruval hated the thought of turning Ysan ships over to Rome. What did Rome do for Armorica other than suck it dry? Would it not be better to build strength at home—quietly, of course—until Ys could tell Rome to do its worst?

Soren Cartagi, Speaker for Taranis, was also a voice for the Great Houses when he said, first, that to help the Christians thus was to speed the day when they came to impose their God by force; second, the cost would be more than the city could bear or the people would suffer; third, Gratillonius must remember that he was the King of a sovereign nation, not the proconsul of a servile province.

Queen Lanarvilis, who at this session was the leader of the Gallicenae, pointed out needs at home which the treasure and labor could serve. And was there indeed any threat in the future with which existing forces could not cope, as they had coped in the past? Had not the Romans now quelled their enemies and secured Britannia? Also in the South, she understood, peace prevailed; Stilicho and Alaric the Visigoth had ended their strife and come to terms. Rather than looking ahead with fear, she saw a sun of hopefulness rising.

Opposition to Gratillonius’s desire coalesced around those two persons. When the meeting adjourned after stormy hours, he drew them aside and asked that they accompany him to the palace for a confidential talk.

In the atrium there, he grinned wearily and said, “First I wish a quick bath and a change into garb more comfortable than this. Would you care for the same?”

Soren and Lanarvilis exchanged a look. “Nay,” the man growled. “Well seek straight to the secretorium and… marshal our thoughts.”

“Debate grew too heated,” the woman added in haste. “You’ve brought us hither that we may reason with one another, not so? Let us therefore make sure of our intents.”

Gratillonius regarded them for a silent moment. Tall she stood in her blue gown and white headdress, but her haunches seemed heavier of late, while her shoulders were hunched above a shrunken bosom. That brought her neck forward like a turtle’s; the green eyes blinked and peered out of sallowness which sagged. He knew how faded her blond hair was. Withal, she had lost little vigor and none of her grasp of events.

Soren had put on much weight in the last few years; his belly strained the red robe and distorted its gold embroidery. The chest on which the Wheel amulet hung remained massive. His hair and beard were full of gray; having taken off his miter, he displayed a bald spot. Yet he was no less formidable than erstwhile.

Sadness tugged at Gratillonius. “As you will,” he said. “I’ll have refreshments sent up, and order us a supper. We do have need to stay friends.”

—When he opened the door of the upstairs room, he saw them in facing chairs, knee against knee, hands linked. Taken by surprise, they started and drew apart. He pretended he had not noticed. “Well,” he said, “I’m ready for a stoup of that wine. Council-wrangling is thirsty work.” He strode to the serving table, mixed himself a strong beakerful, and took a draught before turning about to confront them.

Soren’s broad countenance was helmeted with defiance. Lanarvilis sat still, hands now crossed in her lap, but Gratillonius had learned over the years to read distress when it lay beneath her face.

He stayed on his feet, merely because in spite of the hot bath he felt too taut for anything else. The light of candles threw multiple shadows to make him stand forth, for dusk filled the window of the chamber and dimmed the pastoral frescoes, as if to deny that such peacefulness was real.

“Let me speak plainly,” he began. “Clear ’tis to see, I hope to win you over, so you’ll support my proposal tomorrow. That’ll be difficult for you after today, because I put you on your honor not to reveal certain things I’m about to tell you.”

“Why should we make that pledge?” Soren demanded.

“Pray patience,” Lanarvilis requested gently. To Gratillonius: “Ere you give out this information, can you tell us what its nature is?”

“My reasons for believing the barbarian ebb has turned, and in years to come will flood upon us. Already this year, seaborne Saxons occupied Corbilo at the mouth of the Liger. They’re bringing kinfolk from their homeland to join them.”

“I know,” Soren snapped. “They are laeti.”

“Like the Franks in Armorica,” Gratillonius retorted. “Rome had small choice in the matter. I mentioned it for what it bodes. There is worse to relate. The reason why I ask for your silence about it is that if word gets loose as to what my sources are, it could be fatal to them.”

“Indeed?” answered Soren skeptically. “I know you worry yourself about the northern Scoti, and doubtless you’ve been wise to keep track of them, but naught has happened aside from some piracy along the Britannic shores, nor does it seem that aught else will.”

Gratillonius shook his head. “You’re mistaken. I’ve nurtured relations with the tribes in southern Hivernia for more cause than improving trade. ’Tis a listening post. My informants and… outright spies would be in grave trouble, if it become known what regular use I have made of them. Yonder King Conual of the rising star, he has no hostility of his own toward us; but he is a sworn friend of northerly King Niall. The two wouldn’t likely make alliance against Rome or Ys, but neither will wittingly betray the other. Now you may remember my telling you what I found out a while back, that Niall led the reaving fleet which we destroyed.”

Soren thought. “I seem to recall. What does it matter?”

“He is no petty warlord. I’ve discovered that he was the mastermind behind the great onslaught on the Roman Wall, sixteen years ago. Since then, and the disaster he suffered here, he’s warred widely in his island. The latest news I’ve received makes me sure that this is the year when he intends to complete and consolidate his conquests there. After that—what? I expect he will look further. And… he has never forgotten what Ys did to him. He has vowed revenge.”

Soren scowled and tugged his beard. Lanarvilis ventured: “Can he ever master naval strength to match ours? Besides a few crude galleys, what have the Scoti other than leather boats? Where is their discipline, their coordinated command?”

Gratillonius sighed. “My dear,” he told her—and saw how she almost imperceptibly winced—“like too many people, you’re prone to suppose that because barbarians are ignorant of some things we know, they must be stupid. Niall will bide his chance. What he may devise, I cannot foresee, but best would be if we kept him always discouraged. I’m sending my man Rufinus back to Hivernia this summer. His mission will be to learn as much about what is going on as he can; and he’s a wily one, you know. If he can do Niall a mischief, so much the better. You’ll both understand that this is among those matters whereof you must keep silence.”