Roma Mater

by Poul Anderson

  They made a brave sight on the march. Gratillonius ranked them four abreast so they wouldn’t be slowed by any civil traffic they met. To spare hoofs without the trouble of sandalling them, he rode on the gravelled side-strips when those were provided, while three men at the rear led the pack horses. On the highway, Eppillus named a different man each day for the honour of striding in the van, holding the standard on high and with the bearskin over his armour. Everybody wore full battle gear; in sunny weather, light flashed off helmets, mail, javelin heads, the oiled leather of shield facings. Gratillonius displayed silvery coat and greaves, together with crest athwart his helmet and cloak flowing away from his throat, both as vivid a red as the eagle banner. Hobnails crashed down in drumlike unison, but the lines were not rigid, they had that subtle wheatfield ripple that bespeaks men whose trade is war.

  At first they travelled through country such as Gratillonius had heard described. It was smooth terrain, grazed by livestock or worked by gangs of cultivators. Aside from woodlots, trees were few. Hamlets generally amounted to a pair of long houses, half-timbered and thatched, divided into apartments for the dwellers and, in winter, their beasts. Carts trundled along the roads, driven by men in smocks and wooden shoes. Other passers-by rode mules, or walked carrying baskets or tools. What few women appeared were afoot but seemed unafraid. When they saw the squadron, people gaped, then often waved their hats and cheered. Every fifty or sixty miles the highway passed through a small town This country lay at peace.

  Yet Gratillonius noticed how hastily those towns had been walled of late, with anything that came to hand, even tombstones and broken-up monuments. And they had shrunk. Deserted buildings on the outskirts, stripped of everything valuable, were crumbling into grass-grown hillocks. The inhabitants looked poor and discouraged, save those who sat in taverns getting drunk. On market days the forums remained half empty. As for the hinterlands, the farmers ate better, but most of them were serfs. Or worse; Gratillonius remembered the publican. Whenever he passed a villa – a fundus, they called such an estate in Gallia – or a latifundium, a plantation which had devoured many a farm, he thought a malediction.

  He would have liked commandeering fresh rations from those places as the need arose, but that was too chancy. Instead, he levied on military warehouses. Sometimes he had trouble getting what he wanted, because the garrisons were composed of alien auxiliaries with their own ideas about diet. His requirement was for what would keep in this wet climate, while being nutritious and easy to prepare: parched grain, biscuit, butter, cheese, dry sausage, preserved meat, beans, peas, lentils, pickled cabbage, dried apples, raisins, wine. That last was apt to be poor, and the water that would dilute it to be muddy, but beer was too bulky for what you got out of it. Not that he allowed drunkenness. However, it was wise to let the men have a treat at day’s end, while supper cooked or in their tents if rain forced a cold meal.

  The first night out was mild. They pitched camp in a pasture and grinned and winked at some towheaded youngsters, driving cattle home, who stopped to stare timidly. Gratillonius ordered a kettle of warm water brought him when it was ready, sought his shelter, removed his armour, and sighed in relief. Give him a scrub and change of linen, and he’d be ready for a drink himself. He insisted the troops keep clean too, but if he bathed out in the open among them, it would be bad for discipline.

  Budic carried the water in, set it down by Gratillonius’s bedroll, and straightened. He could stand upright in an officer’s tent, though his blond hair brushed the leather. He saluted. ‘Sir,’ he said in a rush, ‘may I ask a great favour?’

  Gratillonius laughed. ‘You may. You won’t necessarily get it.’

  ‘If … the centurion would allow me an extra ration of bread and cheese … and if, when the chance comes, we would lay in some kippered fish –’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  It was getting dim in here, despite the flag being folded back. Did the boy blush? He certainly gulped. ‘Sir, this is Lent.’

  ‘Lent. Ah. The long Christian fast. Are you sure? I’ve gathered the Christians can’t agree among themselves how to calculate the date of their Easter.’

  ‘I didn’t – didn’t think, I forgot about it, in all the excitement of departure, and then on the march I lost track of time. But that terrible happening on the ship, it shocked me into recalling – this, and all my sins, like lust when I see a pretty girl or anger when some of the men bait me – Equinox has just passed, with the moon new. Lent is already far along. Please, sir, let me set myself a penance, and also do right in the Faith.’ Budic swallowed again. The centurion is not a Christian, but he is a pious man.’

  Gratillonius considered. He wanted everybody fit, not weakened by a growling belly; and special privilege might well cause discord. Yet this was a deprivation, not a luxury. He doubted others would want it, he having picked men he knew weren’t holy-holy sorts – men who, Christian or Mithraist, would not feel uneasy about there being no observance on the Sundays that both religions made their sabbaths. Budic he hadn’t known so well, the lad being newly enlisted, an orphaned rustic; but Budic had fought like a wildcat beyond the Wall, been a good if perhaps overly earnest trailmate on the way home, and would have been crushed if his leader had passed him over for this expedition. Young, strong in spite of his gangly build, he should get along, no matter his curious practice. Maybe he was so fervent because Christians were scarce where he came from, and other children had jeered at him. Maybe he enlisted partly in hopes of finding friends.

  ‘You may, if it’s that important to you,’ Gratillonius decided. ‘Just don’t act sanctimonious if nobody else follows your example. Go tell the cook.’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ Adoration blazed forth. Thank you, sir!’

  Presently Gratillonius emerged to find the squadron at ease except for sentries and kitchen detail. The campfire crackled, raising savoury fumes out of a pot suspended above. A low sun gilded the earth. Grass was dry enough to sit on, but several men, with goblets in hand, stood clustered before Budic and teased him.

  ‘You mean you didn’t think to get a special dispensation?’ asked Adminius. ‘Why, the bishop was ‘anding ‘em out like ‘otcakes at a love feast. Dibs on yer porkchops.’

  Cynan sneered, which made the mark of his punishment writhe on that cheek. It marred his dark handsomeness, and must still hurt, but should heal soon. Probably he wasn’t quite over his resentment. Those Demetae were inclined to be broody sorts. ‘I suppose somebody among us may as well get in good with Jesus,’ he said, ‘though I hear this countryside is still blessedly free of Him.’ He heard Mass when that seemed expedient, but made no bones about reckoning the faith one for women and soft city dwellers. Himself, he sought the temple of Nodens when he could.

  ‘Can’t stop and dicker with any cleric we might come across.’ Adminius’s thin features split in a gap-toothed grin. ‘Tell you wot, though, Budic. If we do meet one, I’ll ‘elp you grab ‘im up and sling ‘im over a ‘orse, and ‘e can oblige you as we travel.’

  The youth reddened. He doubled his fists. Eppillus’s burly form pushed close. He had sensed trouble brewing. ‘That will do,’ the deputy rumbled. ‘Leave off the jibes. Every man’s got a right to his religion.’

  The tormentors drifted away, a little abashed, to mingle with their comrades. ‘Thank you,’ Budic said unevenly. ‘I, uh, may I ask what your belief is? I’ve never seen you at … our services.’

  Eppillus shrugged. ‘I follow Mithras, same as the centurion and two others amongst us. But I admit that for luck I look more to a thunderstone I carry.’ It was a piece of flint in the form of a spearhead, found near a dolmen many years ago. He chuckled deep in his hairy breast. ‘Could be that’s why I’ve never made better than second grade in the Mystery. But I’m too old to change my ways, when there’s no wife to badger me out of ‘em.’

  ‘I thought … you would be married.’

  ‘I was. She died. Two kids, both grown and flown the nest. I’ve got my bit of a farm
still, back near Isca, and when my hitch is up – couple years to go – I’ll find me a nice plump widow.’ Eppillus grew aware of Gratillonius, who had stood quietly listening. ‘Oh, hail, sir. Budic, don’t stand there like a snow man in a thaw. Go get the centurion his wine.’

  Gratillonius smiled. On the whole, this episode seemed to bode well.

  4

  The land began to rise after they crossed into Gallia Lugdunensis. Roads must curve, climb, swing back down again, around and over hills that were often steep. Nevertheless, the legionaries continued day by day to eat the miles.

  Or the leagues, which were what waystones now measured. Unlike Britannia, Gallia had reverted from Rome’s thousand paces to the larger Celtic measure. Gratillonius didn’t know just when or why that had happened. But he did know that the Gallic provinces, together with the Rhenus valley, had been the richest, most populous and productive territories in the Empire. What they wanted, they could likely get – including a new Emperor?

  Certainly this land clung unhindered to its own old ways. Cynan had been right; Christianity was a religion for towns. Frequently Gratillonius spied a cella, a Celtic temple. Even smaller than a Mithraeum, it consisted of a single square room surrounded by a porch. Public rites took place in the temenos outside; the chamber could barely hold one or two persons who had some special need of their Gods.

  Now and then the legionaries passed a hill fort, earthworks raised on a height before ever Caesar arrived. Most were deserted, their outlines time-blurred, but Gratillonius observed that some had lately been refurbished, refuges against the failure of everything Roman.

  Spring rolled northwards apace. Trees leafed, hawthorn hedges bloomed white, wildflowers bejewelled meadows gone intensely green, larks jubilated aloft. Where fields lay under cultivation, the first fine shoots thrust out of furrows and orchards were riotous with blossom. Views became splendid from the ridges, down over dappled valleys where rivers gleamed and clanged in spate. Rain turned into scattered showers after which rainbows bridged the clouds. Most days were clear, warm, full of sweetness. They grew swiftly longer too, which made for better time on the road, although Gratillonius liked the gentle nights and would sometimes stroll from camp to be alone with the stars.

  Speech changed across the country, shifting from dialect to dialect until you could say that Caletes and Osismii spoke distinct languages. However, he could always make himself understood, whether or not anybody knew Latin – which many farmers, who never went more than a few miles from their birthplaces, did not. Barely enough commerce still trickled along that he could obtain information about conditions ahead. Thus advised, he twice took shortcuts over local roads that were adequate. The gravel on them was washing away and not being replaced, but in dry weather they still served.

  That neglect was a sign of much else. The farther west the men came, the more desolation they saw. At first it was not unlike parts of Britannia, vacant huts, acres gone back to weeds, squalid serf shacks well away from the mansions of the honestiores, towns listless and half empty. The larger towns had garrisons, which saw to such things as the maintenance of bridges, but these were auxiliaries from as far away as Egypt, foreign alike to Roman and Celt, generally sloppy. Or, worse, the troops were laeti, Germanic or Alanic barbarians who had forced their way into the province and carved out settlements for themselves: men surly, shaggy, fierce, and filthy, on guard more for the sake of their own kin than for the Empire to which they gave nominal allegiance.

  Thirty years had passed since Magnentius failed in his try for the throne. The ruin left by the war was not yet repaired, nor did it seem likely ever to be. Why? wondered Gratillonius. Nature was no less generous here than erstwhile: rich soil, timber, minerals, navigable rivers, fructifying sunshine and rain. The Gauls were an able race, to whom Rome had brought peace, civilization, an opening on the rest of the world. Her armies and navies easily kept prosperity unplundered by outsiders. In return she asked for little other than loyalty, obedience to laws that were more tribal than Roman, a modest tribute so the engineers and soldiers could be paid. Gauls grew wealthy, not only from agriculture and mining but from manufacturing. Art and learning waxed brilliant in their cities. Gallia became the heartland of the Empire. Why could she not now recover? What had gone wrong?

  Gratillonius didn’t ask his questions aloud. The men were already oppressed by what they saw. In camp they didn’t sing or crack jokes, they sat wistfully talking about their homes. The centurion heartened them somewhat with a speech on the marvels awaiting them at Ys, but he was hampered by the fact that he didn’t know just what those were.

  The more they marched, the grimmer it was. The road ran near the coast. Saxon raiders had been coming yearly out of the sea, in ever greater fleets whose crews would go ravaging far inland. The Duke of the Armorican Tract could do little to check them. His forces were depleted, and the shore forts had never been as tightly interlinked as those of Britannia. If a detachment was not simply too small to fight a barbarian swarm, it was seldom fast enough to catch them before they had wrought their havoc and were off elsewhere. They took care to demolish message towers, so that Roman signals of fire by night and smoke by day were no longer visible at any very useful distance; it looked to Gratillonius as if the army had given up attempts at rebuilding.

  Otherwise the Saxons were as insensate as wildfire. They slaughtered men, ravished women, made quarry of children. Having clumsily sacked, they burnt. Were a place too poor to rob, they kindled it anyway, for sheer love of destruction. Gratillonius came upon ash heaps that had been houses, buildings of brick and stone rooflessly agape, towns where a few who fled had returned to squat in the ruins and tell their tales of horror, defensive walls broken and never repaired, orchards chopped down, fields charred, harbours empty of their fishing boats. He glimpsed livestock skeletons, strewn human bones which nobody had come back to bury, wandering beggars who had once had homes, three or four women who had gone mad and went about unkempt, ragged, and gibbering. Wild dogs were more dangerous than wolves. One rainy day at the remnant of a manor house, he saw a peacock dying of chill and starvation, its tail dragged down in the mud, and wondered why the sight moved him so.

  Scoti out of Hivernia had been arriving too. They were fewer in number than the Saxons, not as wantonly cruel, and their leather coracles could hold less loot than German galleys. They did their share of damage, though, especially by carrying off able-bodied young captives for slaves.

  Not every stronghold had fallen, not every farm stood abandoned. A measure of civilized life went on, however wanly. The land itself was beautiful, wide beaches, long hills and dales whose grass rippled and trees soughed in the wind off the sea. Birds filled heaven, gulls, gannets, cormorants, ducks, geese, swans, cranes, herons, a hundred smaller sorts and the eagle high above them. Fish flashed in every stream, bats and swifts darted about at dusk while frogs croaked in chorus, lizards basked on sunny rocks. Squirrels streaked like meteors, hares bounded off, deer browsed in the distance. At least wildlife was coming back.

  At Ingena Gratillonius planned to turn south of west, inland, towards Vorgium. There he would collect fresh supplies and have the men put their equipment in top form before the last leg of their journey. The military commander, a grizzled Italian, counselled him against it.

  ‘Yonder’s only a husk, scarcely a village, after what the Saxons did to it – Osismiis, that was once the finest city in Armorica, after Ys,’ he said. Gratillonius felt a slight shock at hearing how the Roman name had fallen out of use, even for this man. ‘A few Mauretanians stationed there yet, but they don’t keep proper stores, they rely on outside supply mostly. No, I’d say you should head south from here to Condate Redonum. It’s about your last chance to restock, if you’re bound west. I suppose you’ve business among the Veneti?’

  ‘Farther north,’ Gratillonius evaded.

  ‘Well, then, first proceed to Fanum Martis. Don’t bother exchanging courtesies with the garrison, they’re a lot of sc
ruffy Egyptians. It’s a detour, but you’ll make better speed, because you’ll have trunk roads to there and then down to Redonum. Thence it’s secondaries, but gravelled and well kept up, because the Osismii and sometimes the Ysans use it for their wagons. A good deal is through wildwood, but you should have no trouble; I scarcely think Bacaudae will jump Roman regulars. At the coast you’ll come to Garomagus – m-m, the ruins of Garomagus – and from there another good secondary road will take you down to the maritime station near Ys. That’s ruined too, been ruined for a long time. However, I hear the Ysans maintain the roads through their hinterland, and they should certainly allow you passage, if that’s the way you’re going.’

  A thrill passed through Gratillonius. ‘I’ve heard tell about Ys,’ he said carelessly. ‘Things hard to believe. What’s it like in truth?’

  The commander frowned. ‘Who knows, any more? A city-state on the west coast. I’ve never been there, but people say its towers are the eighth wonder of the world.’

  ‘Surely you know more, sir.’

  The commander scratched his head. ‘Well, let me think. I’ve heard it began as a Carthaginian colony, back before the Celts arrived. The colonists interbred first with the Old Folk, those who’re said to have raised the great stones, and afterwards with the Osismii. They grew prosperous on trade. Julius Caesar made a foederate of Ys, but relations were never close and the last Imperial resident departed, oh, one or two hundred years ago, I guess. Ys no longer even pays tribute. Lately the Duke asked it to cooperate in the defence of Armorica. I hear the answer he got – in polite words, no doubt – was that by patrolling its own waters Ys was doing the best possible service to Rome. He hasn’t the manpower to enforce anything on the city; it’s well protected by its wall and there’d be no way to close its sea lanes. Besides, maybe the Ysans are right. I don’t know. I told you I’ve not been there myself.’