Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  Lanarvilis, who spoke today for the eight Queens that could be present, rose to respond. “We Gallicenae have debated this, and prayed for insight,” she said quietly. “It appears to us that our King chose what, in his mortal judgment, was the lesser evil. Oh, far the lesser evil. So must men of goodwill often do. Had the Gods been angered, They could have let him suffer defeat and death on Point Vanis. Aye, They could have made it that the man who slew him was his challenger. Instead, he stands here a conqueror.

  “There shall be a festival of thanksgiving as soon as possible, as great as Ys has ever seen. There shall be rites of purification and a hecatomb. Then surely will the Gods forgive whatever sins Their Ys was forced to commit for Their sake as well as her own.

  “Thus declares the Temple of Belisama.”

  “Lir is not that easily appeased,” Hannon said.

  “The Speaker for Taranis supports the King and the Nine,” declared Soren Cartagi.

  “And I too, for one,” added Bomatin Kusuri, Mariner Councillor.

  “And I,” joined in Osrach Taniti, Fisher Councillor, “and I make bold to say we twain have some knowledge of Lir’s ways.”

  Once Hannon might have argued further, but old age was overtaking him. “So be it,” he mumbled, and sank back. A murmur of assent ran around the benches.

  “We do have more perils,” reminded Adruval Tyri, Sea Lord. “How could yon Franks have come in, exactly when our forces are elsewhere, save by Roman connivance? What will the Romans try next?” His look was not unfriendly, but it was straight, at the prefect.

  Gratillonius sighed. “As yet I know little or nothing about that,” he told them all. “I’ll be searching out whatever I can.” He refrained from mentioning how helpful he hoped Corentinus, through Martinus, could be in that. “Belike some officials overreached themselves, and higher authority will hold them to account for it. Meanwhile, naught else should threaten us in the near future, and our marines and ships are due back soon. What I need from this Council is its agreement that—that we are on the right road,”

  He got it. The result could scarcely have been otherwise, especially given the temper of the common folk. This meeting had been a formality, although a necessary one.

  Following the benediction he must give—how leadenly it always sounded in his ears!—the Councillors went off to their various businesses with scant further talk. As Gratillonius passed the seats of his Queens, Forsquilis left their group and took his arm. “What?” he asked, surprised.

  “Come to my house,” she said low.

  “But the day is yet young, I’ve much to do, and—Tambilis—?”

  “Her courses came upon her yesterday, earlier than usual. She will be the one who resumes the vigil tomorrow, also out of turn. For we took this as still another portent, we Sisters, when we met ere coming here today.”

  His immediate feeling was pleasure. He knew it for unworthy, but events had kept him abstinent for several days and nights now, and this was the most passionate of his wives. Forsquilis recognized as much. A faint flush crossed the severely chiseled countenance. It drained away at once, her cool reserve in public took her over, and he realized that they had chosen her for cause, whatever it might be. “We must talk, you and I,” she said.

  There had been no opportunity before. He got back from pursuit of the Franks, day before yesterday, in time to make speeches of thanks, sincere to the men, mechanical to the Gods; and kindle the Fire Fountain at dusk before addressing the wildly celebratory crowd; and, finally alone, give Mithras what devotion he was able. Them sleep rammed him. The following day went to a whirl of work, such as the situation demanded. The Gallicenae had been fully engaged too, conducting services, helping the hurt, comforting mourners.

  Forsquilis was not the most learned, wise, or devout among the Nine; but her soul dwelt nearest the Otherworld and sometimes, it was whispered, crossed that frontier. A chill crawled down Gratillonius’s backbone. “Very well,” he said.

  When they emerged on the basilica steps, hurrahs surfed over them. Though Ys was picking up its daily life again, people still thronged the Forum, waiting for a sight of the victor, their rescuer. Gratillonius warmed.

  A lean, long-legged figure broke from them and bounded toward him. A legionary made to wave the intruder off. “Let him come,” the King ordered.

  Rufinus made salutation to him and the Queen. The Gaul wore a sleeveless tunic, for swaddling covered a gash in his left forearm that had required stitches. He moved as lightly as ever, and the green eyes danced with all the wonted mischief. “You said yesterday you’d urgent work for me, lord,” he reminded, “but the telling would need privacy. I took this chance.”

  “Aye. Good,” replied Gratillonius. “My lady, would you abide here a moment with the guard?” She nodded slowly. He could see how she tightened beneath the blue gown.

  He led Rufinus back upstairs and into a corner of the portico. “I want you to find me a bull, white and perfect,” he said in Latin. “Do it discreetly. Bring him to a hiding place nearby—you’ll know one, my fox—on the eighteenth day before the September calends, and notify me. Pay whatever it costs. I’ll reimburse you.”

  The sharp, scarred visage grew wary. “Well, that should give time enough. But why just then?”

  “That’s my affair,” said Gratillonius roughly.

  “Forgive me, sir.” Rufinus steadied his gaze. “I meddle, but a man often has to if he’s to serve his master faithfully. The following day is sacred each month to Mithras. I know that much. You plan a thank-offering.”

  Why did I think I could fool him? wondered Gratillonius. “I pledged it when the Franks were about to break us. You saw what next happened, that sunrise.”

  “I saw something very strange,” Rufinus murmured, “but Ys is a den of strangeness.” He frowned, tugged his fork beard, said abruptly: “You’d never get an ungelded bull down into that crypt of yours.”

  “I know. Regardless of the Christian slanders, blood sacrifices to Mithras are rare and solemn. We—we believers will make ours on the battlefield.”

  “No, please, I beg you. That’d enrage too many worshippers of the Three.”

  “I’ve thought about this too. A man of Mithras does not sneak around. But we need not be offensively conspicuous. By the time our act becomes known through the city, it will have happened, it’ll be in the past. I rely on you to help see to that. Afterward I’ll defend it against any accusation, and I’ll win.”

  “You will that… among men. The Gods—”

  “What, are there Gods that you fear?”

  Rufinus shrugged. “I’ll do what you want, of course.”

  Affection welled up in Gratillonius. He leaned the Hammer against a column and clasped the Gaul by the shoulders. “I knew you would. You’re as true as any legionary of mine. And you’ve never done a service higher than this. Why won’t you enroll with the Lord of Light? You deserve to.”

  Sudden, astonishing tears stood in the feline eyes. “That would be a betrayal of you.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I’d better go.” Rufinus slipped free and hurried down the stairs to lose himself in the crowd.

  Gratillonius rejoined Forsquilis. “You’re troubled,” she said.

  “’Tis not a matter for women,” he rasped. At once he fretted about whether he had given away too much. However, she kept silence, and her face was unreadable.

  At her house he dismissed the soldiers and changed his robe for a tunic. This was a warm, cloudless noontide. He stored garments in the homes of all the Nine. Tucking the Key underneath as he was wont, he felt it hard and heavy upon his breastbone. Ordinarily, after these many years, he didn’t notice.

  He found that she too had donned light, plain garb, a linen gown. It lay pleasingly across curves that somehow blent well with her panther ranginess. Her feet were bare on the reed matting she had over her floors. To him that suggested she did not want the bother of unlacing sandals. Desire throbbed. “Well
,” he said as merrily as he could, “I suppose your cook has something in preparation, but first—?”

  “First we talk.” She led him to her secretorium. Window drapes dimmed it. That gave an eerie half-life to the objects round about, archaic female figurine from Tyre, symbol-engraved bones, flint thunderstones, cat’s-skull lamp, ancient scrolls…. They sat opposite each other. Her eyes, gray by full light, seemed huge and filled with darkness.

  “What was that apparition during the battle?” she asked softly.

  “Why, why, who knows?” he stammered, startled. Recovering balance: “Sucn visions have come often erenow. Homer tells how the Gods appeared to heroes who fought under the walls of Troy. The old Romans saw Castor and Pollux riding before them at Lake Regillus. Constantinus claimed the Cross that is Christ’s stood once in the sky, and in that sign he went on to make himself supreme. We too, when we met the Scoti in the first year of my Kingship, we’d have slain them to the last man, save that a huge and horrible crone seemed to be there. I thought I saw her myselt You remember. Was it a God, a demon, a delirium? Who knows?”

  “You evade my question,” she said, unrelenting. “Who, or what, was this?”

  “I’ve heard Ysans say it was Taranis. The Christians among my legionaries speak of an angel. Who knows?”

  “You, though. You called on your Mithras, did you not?”

  He mustered defiance. “Aye. As was my right. And I am free to believe He answered.”

  “The attributes of that Being—from what I can discover—” Her calm dissolved. She trembled. “Let it b-be Anybody else Who was there, Anybody.”

  “What?” He leaned forward to take her hands. They were cold. “How can you say that? When Mithras Himself came to save Ys—”

  “Like an outlaw to the last farm where dogs are not at his heels,” she gasped. “Oh, Grallon, this is what I have to tell you, that the omens are evil, evil. The Gods of Ys have endured so much. Put down your pride!”

  Rage swelled in him. “I ask only that They take heed of my honor, as Mithras does.” Her distress checked his mood. “But what are those omens, my dear? Your Sisters looked unafraid enough this day.”

  Forsquilis gulped. “I did not tell them, nor can I tell you, for ’tis naught so clear as a star falling above the necropolis or a calf born with two heads or even a sortilege on a face in the smoke. Nay, dreams, voices half-heard in the wind and the waters, a chill that gripped me when I sought to pray—I could only tell the Queens that the Gods are troubled, and this of course they knew already. I did not say to them how it feels.”

  She cast herself from her seat, onto his lap, and clung, her face burrowed against his shoulder. “Oh, Grallon, Grallon, be careful before Them! We must not lose you!”

  He held her close, stroked her and murmured to her, aware the while that what she wanted was below his reach; but he need not say it in so many words, need he? Let him comfort her as best he might, and afterward stand guard again over her and Dahut and Ys, in the quietly spoken name of Mithras. Her embrace turned into wild, lip-slashing kisses, with clawings to get rid of garments, until they were on the floor together.

  2

  Torches in the avenue and lanterns up the street, night became a sunrise glow about their eager feet, lit the way for golden youth bound forth to celebrate, and Dahut was awaiting them within her father’s gate.

  Plangency of harp and flute, the heartbeat of a drum, pulsed in Ys to welcome those whom she had bidden come dance away all darknesses, that morning sun might see how brightly Dahut’s dower shone—her father’s victory. Golden flashed the eagle wings and bronze the open door, chariots careered within the burnished palace floor, tall the sentry columns reared through incense-dreamy air, and lamplight turned to living gold in Dahut’s loosened hair.

  Silken gowns and purple edges rippled, flowed, and swirled, silver gleamed and amber smoldered where the dancers whirled. Music laughed and laughter sang around their skipping feet, and Dahut went before them all, the fleetest of the fleet. Fair the well-born maidens were and handsome were the men treading out the merry measure, forth and back again. Close embrace or stolen kiss could cast a sweet surprise; but Dahut was the star that shone before the young men’s eyes. Kel Cartagi, Soren’s grandson, touched her hand and waist. Then the dance bereaved him of her with its lilting haste. On she swayed to Barak Tyri, on to many more. So Dahut left a swathe of joy and woe across the floor.

  When the music paused a while and gave the fevered guest time to cool or drink or chat or flirt or simply rest, Carsa strove to keep a Roman impassivity while Dahut in a ring of other men made jubilee. Tommaltach the Scotian boldly shouldered through to her, cowing with a wolfish grin whomever would demur, ready with such words as run when bardic harpstrings thrum; then Dahut gave him half a glance, and he was stricken dumb. Legionaries duty-freed who hastened at her call, honor guard for her their Luck, stood ranked against the wall, armed and brightly armored from the war that they had won, and Budic’s gaze trailed Dahut as the new moon trails the sun.

  Soon the music woke again, the dance began afresh. Red and gold and purple twined, unrestful rainbow mesh, till the western stars grew pale and silver streaked the east, when Dahut bade the youth of Ys come follow her to feast.

  Afterward she led them out to breathe the sunrise air. Light caressed her slenderness and blazed within her hair. Up onto the city wall she took her company, and Dahut by the Raven Tower looked across her sea.

  3

  The moon was still down when Gratillonius and his followers went out Northbridge Gate, but starlight sufficed. Redonian Way glimmered ashen and resounded hollowly under their tread. After they passed the bend and turned east, though, murk grew before them. Clouds piled huge over the hills, womb-black save where lightning kicked. Ever strengthening, wind skirled cold as it drove them and the sound of thunder westward.

  Muton Rosmertai, Suffete of Ys and Lion of Mithras, shivered. “Yon’s no natural storm, bound this way this hour,” he said. They were going by Lost Castle. He made a warding at the ruins. A wave-burst on the cliffs below brawled answer.

  “We fare in the service of the God,” Gratillonius rebuked him.

  “Other Gods are angry.”

  “There is always war among Them,” Cynan said. “We are soldiers.”

  “I am not afraid—not daunted,” Muton insisted. By the vague quivery light they saw him puff himself up. He had been a zealous convert, advancing rapidly in the Mysteries because of good works and quick mastery of the lore. However, he was otherwise a dealer in spices, who had never crossed the water or fought a battle. “I only wondered if we are altogether wise, if the cause may be better served by heeding the warnings of Those who likewise are entitled to honor.”

  “A soldier questions not his orders,” said Verica, whom Gratillonius had made his Runner of the Sun. “He carries them out.”

  “And saves his grumbling for the commissariat,” Cynan laughed.

  Gratillonius felt uneasy at the talk. Cynan’s fellow Persian, Maclavius, delivered the Father from having to command silence and let men brood: “What say we sing? A good route song shortens the miles. Fratres, Milites, eh?”

  That was in Latin, as most Mithraic hymns were throughout the Western Empire. One by one they took it up, the men of the four high ranks and the half dozen Soldiers, Occults, and Ravens behind them.

  “Brothers, soldiers of the Army, now the marching has begun.

  And aloft before our ranks there go the Eagles of the Sun—”

  The deep cadences laid hold on hearts. Soon it mattered less how the sky above was darkening and the wind had started to sting faces with flung raindrops.

  It was not overly far to the meeting place Rufinus had described. Where a trail from inland met the pavement stood a shepherd’s shelter, usually deserted at night. Another four lower initiates waited there, under captaincy of the Osismiic Lion Ronach. They had the two mule carts ready which Gratillonius wanted. One was full of articles brought inconspi
cuously out of the city the previous day, the other carried an abundance of firewood. From the shelter, Rufinus led the bull he had purchased in Osismia. With him was the new member of the congregation, Tommaltach the Scotian, as yet only a Raven but picked to come along on this mission because he could best cope with the beast if it got dangerous.

  It was indeed a magnificent animal, Gratillonius discerned, heavily muscled, mightily horned, snow-pure of hue. “Well done,” he said, taking the chain to the nosering from Rufinus. “See me at the palace about noon and I’ll repay your outlay.”

  Snag teeth flickered in the fork beard. “May that include what I spent on wine? I’d have to guess.”

  “Whatever you claim, I’ll pay. You’d never cheat me, Rufinus.”

  “I japed, I japed.” Sudden pain was in the voice. It turned matter-of-fact: “Niveus here is gentle for a bull, but watch out if a horse gallops by in sight. He’ll want to charge. He tries to inspect every cow he sees, too, I suppose in hopes she’s hot. Tommaltach knows him by now. Goodnight.” He withdrew so swiftly that it was as though he had melted into the wind.

  “Well scarcely meet either of those troubles the rest of this walk,” Gratillonius said. Anything to lighten the mood. He tugged carefully. “Let’s go, fellow.”

  Their progress grew slow. The weather outpaced them. Stars vanished. Lightning leaped, first behind, later overhead, blue-white savagery—no help against the dark. Thunder-wheels boomed down unseen heaven. Wind droned and whined. Raindrops came thicker. Somebody got a couple of lanterns lit, which bobbed cheerless and barely showed the way. The bull snorted, tossed his head, occasionally pulled on the chain. Tommaltach went at his side, spear in right hand, left hand stroking the creature, scratching it behind the horns, while he crooned a Gaelic herdsmen’s melody.

  “You do have a gift for this,” said Gratillonius after a long time wherein nobody spoke. “I’ve heard about your skill, how you’ve sported on farms. Will you secure the sacrifice?”