‘Few seem to. Odd. I should think curiosity alone –’
The commander pressed lips together. ‘I should too, now you say it. But that isn’t the case. I never wondered much about Ys either, even when I was young and lively. You see practically no mention of it in any records. I’ve read Caesar and Tacitus and Plinius and – and many more – and nowhere have I found a word about Ys, not in the Gallic War itself, though native tradition insists Caesar paid a visit in person.’ He sighed. ‘Christ and all angels help us, there’s something damnably strange about Ys. They have a grisly kind of royal sacrifice, and nine witch-queens who go out on a desert island and work black magic, and – Well, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve troubles aplenty as is.’
Gratillonius did not pursue matters.
At sunrise he led his men onward. After two days they came to Fanum Martis, where the tower dedicated to the war God loomed huge and empty above houses, many of which were also deserted.
There they swung south. In that direction they found ample traces of former habitation. Armorica had once been thriving and well populated, except for the heavily forested interior; but little remained. Land rolled gently, taken over by grass, brambles, young trees. Often the travellers spied megalithic monuments. Gauls said Gods, or elves, or wizards, or the Old Folk had raised those gaunt menhirs, solitary or in cromlech circles, those massive dolmens and passage chambers. Once the party made camp by one of the latter. Gratillonius took a torch inside and came upon relics of a family who had sheltered there – a well-off family, whose glassware gleamed while furniture decayed and silver corroded on the earth. He wondered what had happened to them. Thieves had not dared enter this haunted place afterwards. Gratillonius left the things where they were, out of respect for the dead, and did not mention them.
None of his followers had volunteered to accompany him, though he knew they would have done so if asked. Gratillonius was not himself afraid. He didn’t think Ahriman would deign to employ mere spooks, and in any event they must flee from the light of Ahura-Mazda which Mithras bore. He could not understand why otherwise rational people had all those vague superstitions about Ys.
Next morning the soldiers rose at first light as usual, paid their various devotions, got a meagre breakfast, struck camp, and marched. They reached Condate Redonum before noon.
This riparian city too had withdrawn behind fortress walls; but those were unbreached, the houses within unplundered, if dirty and dilapidated. More life flowed over the cobbles, between buildings and across the forum, than Gratillonius had seen for some time. After passing through areas where folk tended to be dark-haired, here he found them again generally fair, as well as robust and rather tall.
Most were local Redones, but quite a few were Osismii come from the west to market. Gratillonius observed the latter with special interest; their country bordered on Ys. The men ran to sweeping moustaches and hair in long braids. Their clothing was of good stuff and frequently fur-trimmed. They carried themselves boldly. Gratillonius recalled that the honestiores had never taken root among them, nor had there ever been many curials to grind between the millstones.
In contrast, the garrison appalled him. It was mainly of Frankish laeti. They were big men, armoured in conical helmets and leather reinforced with iron rings. Sword and francisca, the dreaded throwing-axe, were their principal weapons; shields were small and round, garishly painted. They swaggered about pushing others out of the way, daring anybody to defy them.
Gratillonius sought the military prefect at headquarters. That Iberian could only say, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll see to it that you get what you need, of course, but in this confusion it may take a little time, and meanwhile I urge you to camp well away from town. Our people have got used to the Franks, if not exactly liking them, but your men could too easily get into a fight. You see, it happens they’re holding one of their festivals tonight.’
‘Hm-m. Drunk and rowdy.’
To say the least. They’re heathen, did you know? They’ll swill themselves into madness and believe they’re inspired by Mercurius – Wotan, they call Him, chief of their Gods.’ The officer grimaced. ‘It won’t be as bad as the quarter days. Then they go out in the country and make human sacrifices. True, that does take them out of town. Redonum won’t be safe tonight. But what can we do?’
Gratillonius thought furiously that he knew very well what he could do. Still, he must not lose men in the chastising of Franks … who were allies against barbarians from outside … His mission lay before him, in glorious Ys.
Next day his troop marched westward.
V
At midnight the Nine left the House of the Goddess and set forth. They bore no lanterns, for the moon was nearly full and the sky clear. Their weather spell had seen to that. But there was a wind, whistling and cold from the east, over the island and away across Ocean. This too was the will of the Nine, for it was such a wind as rode with the souls of many among the dead. The Gallicenae would need every unseen power they could raise to strengthen them in that which they were about to do.
Sena was small, flat, treeless. Moonlight lay hoar on harsh grass, darkling on rocks, ashimmer on tide pools and the kelp strewn around them. It frosted the manes of waves as they rolled and tumbled, it made white fountains where they crashed on outlying reefs and rocks, it glimmered off the coats of seals that swam along as if following the procession. It drowned most stars; those that were left seemed to flicker in the wind.
The women walked slowly, silent save when a cloak flapped or a pebble gritted underfoot. The wind spoke for them. Forsquilis led. She stared before her, blind and deaf in trance. Vindilis and Bodilis guided her by either arm. They were those who could hold themselves steadiest when next to such a vessel of strangeness. The other six followed in file. Quinipilis was in front, as befitted the oldest, the presiding one. Fennalis came after, and then her daughter Lanarvilis, then Innilis, then Maldunilis. Last was Dahilis, who crowded a little as if the bulk ahead could somehow shield her from the terrors that prowled about. A covered firepot she carried glowed out of airholes like red spider eyes.
It seemed long, but was not, until the Queens reached the Stones. Those two pillars, rough-hewn and raised by the Old Folk, stood close together near the middle of the island. The beak of the Bird, the more pointed head of the Beast – vague resemblances – were some two man-heights aloft. Vindilis and Bodilis helped Forsquilis in between them. They engulfed her in shadow; hardly any of her was now to be seen other than the manyfold linen windings of her headdress, phantom-wan. She laid her palms against the rock and stood motionless except for quickened breath.
The rest ranged themselves in a circle, Quinipilis facing the seeress. The aged woman lifted her arms and countenance on high. ‘Ishtar-Isis-Belisama, have mercy on us,’ she called in a voice still strong. ‘Taranis, embolden us. Lir, harden us. All Gods else, we invoke You in the name of the Three, and cry unto You for the deliverance of Ys.’
Her prayer used the ancestral speech because of its sacredness and potency, but thereafter she returned to the vernacular: ‘Forsquilis, Forsquilis, how go you, what find you?’
The priestess between the Stones answered like a sleepwalker: ‘I go as an owl. The treetops beneath my wings are a net wherein the moon touches buds and new leaves with argent. It is lonely being a spirit out of the flesh. The stars are more far away than ever we knew; the cold of those vastnesses comes seeping down over the world, through and through me.
‘I see a glade. Dew sparkles on grass around a camp where a fire burns low. Metal gleams on its guardians. I glide downward. The forest is haunted tonight. Do I glimpse the antlers of Cernunnos as He walks amidst His trees?
They are soldiers, yon men, earthlings only, naught in them of fate. Am I misled? Did the Gods not hear us or heed us? Oh, surely these men are bound hither and surely that is a sign unto us. Yet – Bewildered, I flutter to and fro in the air.’
Suddenly her voice came alive: ‘A man steps forth from darknes
s. Was it him that I espied under the boughs? Sleepless, he has walked down a game trail to sit by a spring and love the sky. Sleepless – he knows not why – but I know him! Now when he is drawn this near, his destiny has reached out of the future and touched him.
‘He feels it. He looks upward and sees my wings beneath the moon, the moon that turns his eyes to quicksilver. The dread of the mystery in him comes upon me. I fly from his terrible gaze. It is he, it is he, it is he!’
Forsquilis shrieked and fell. Quinipilis stood aside while Bodilis and Vindilis pulled her out into the open and stretched her carefully on the ground. The rest clustered about. Between dark cloaks and blanched headwraps, most visages were paler than was due to the light.
Bodilis knelt to examine the unmoving woman. ‘She seems in a swoon,’ she said.
Quinipilis nodded. ‘That is to be awaited,’ she replied. ‘Our Sister has travelled along weird ways. Cover her well, let her in peace, and she should arouse soon.’
‘Meanwhile, what shall we do?’ asked Lanarvilis.
‘Naught,’ quavered Maldunilis, her wonted placidity torn apart. ‘Naught save abide … abide that moment.’
‘Surely something else,’ was Innilis’s timid thought. ‘Prayer?’
Fennalis stroked her hand, responding, ‘Nay, I think not. We have held rites since sunset. It were not well to risk the Gods growing weary of us.’
Bodilis said slowly: ‘Hold, Sisters. Belike those same Gods have given us this pause. We can think on what our wisest course may be.’
Wrath flared in Vindilis. ‘What mean you?’ she cried. ‘We held council and made decision at equinox. We cast our spells and tonight we know they’ve wrought well. What else remains but to curse Colconor?’
‘That … that is such a dreadful thing,’ Dahilis dared say. ‘Mayhap we shouldn’t – ’
Vindilis turned on the girl as if to attack. ‘You dare?’ she yelled. ‘Has he won your heart, little traitress?’
‘Please, darling, please,’ Innilis begged. She tugged at the sleeve of the older woman, whose anger thereupon abated somewhat.
Dahilis helped by blurting, ‘I meant no cowardice, in truth I did not. It was but that Bodilis said – oh – ’
‘Bodilis said,’ declared that one, ‘we should take heed this last time ere we do what cannot be undone. Magic is ever a two-edged sword, ofttimes wounding the wielder. I loathe Colconor as deeply as do any of you, my Sisters. But we have called his death to him. May not that be enough? Need we hazard more?’
‘We must!’ Lanarvilis exclaimed. ‘If we stand by idle at this pass, well shall we deserve it that our whole enterprise comes to grief.’ She crooked her fingers aloft like talons. ‘Also, I want my share in the death.’
Vindilis hissed agreement.
‘Calm, Sisters, calm, I pray of you,’ urged Fennalis. ‘I’ve no wish myself for black sorcery. Yet if ’tis needful, ’tis needful.’
‘I believe it is,’ Quinipilis told them. ‘Forsquilis is most profound in the lore, aye, but over the years that have been mine I’ve had to do certain deeds, and watch others done. You, Bodilis, are wise, but it is the wisdom of your books and philosophers. Bethink you. Thus far we have at best brought a man who may prevail, and thereafter prove a better King than Colconor.’
‘He could never prove worse,’ whispered gentle Innilis.
‘This man may choose not to fight,’ Quinipilis went on. ‘If he leads soldiers, he is on duty he would be reluctant to set aside. If he does fight, he may lose. I doubt me Colconor’s strength has much dwindled since he won the crown.’
Bodilis nodded thoughtfully. True. If then the soldiers slay him who killed their comrade, why, we would be rid of the monster, but how shall we have a new King? The sacred battle may never be of more than one against one. Ys beholds too much desecration already. I believe that is why the powers of the Gallicenae are fading and failing.’
‘Oh, nay,’ Innilis shuddered and crept close to Vindilis, who laid an arm about her waist.
Tear not, my sweet,’ Vindilis assured her. ‘We will cast our spell in righteousness, that the hero shall indeed take lordship and redeem us.’
Dahilis clasped her hands together. ‘The hero!’ Her eyes shone.
Forsquilis groaned, stirred, looked up with merely human sight. Her colleagues aided her to sit, chafed her wrists, murmured comfort. Finally she could rise.
‘Feel you that we should go on as we’ve planned?’ Quinipilis asked. ‘And if you do, have you the strength?’
The witch straightened. Teeth gleamed between lips drawn thin. ‘Yea and yea!’ she answered. ‘Wait no more. Our might sinks with the moon.’
The Nine had, earlier, brought wood and laid it on a blackened site near the Stones. Dahilis had had the honour of carrying the fire: for the Sisterhood had agreed, upon Quinipilis’s proposing, that Dahilis, youngest and fairest of them, should be the bride of the new King’s first night. She prayed to Belisama while she emptied glowing charcoal on to kindling. The wind made flames leap quickly.
From under her cloak Forsquilis took a silver vessel whence she dusted salt across every palm. The Queens licked it up in the name of Lir. Quinipilis called on Taranis while she drew forth a knife, nicked her thumb, and flung drops of blood on to the fire. They spat when they struck the coals. Each by each, the Sisters passed before her and made the same sacrifice.
They joined hands around the blaze. It roared, streaming and sparkling on the wind. Red and yellow unease below, icy white above, were all the light there was; everywhere else reached blindness. Sang the Nine:
‘Winter wolf and sheering shark,
Whip and tautened traces,
Shame by day and fear by dark,
Hobnails down on faces,
Worms at feast in living hearts,
Dulled and rusted honour –
From his spirit, let these parts
Rise to curse Colconor!
‘May he fall as falls a tree
When its roots are rotten
And a wind whirls off the sea,
Angry, Lir-begotten.
Lord Taranis, in Your sky
Hear the tempest clamour.
Long those poisoned boughs reached high.
Smite them with Your hammer!
‘Belisama, may our spell
Make You come and take him
Down to doom, and there in hell
Evermore forsake him.
Hitherward his bane we draw
In this vengeful springtime.
Stranger, heed the holy Law
All throughout your King time.’
Aboard their boat at the dock, looking beyond the House, the fishermen who had brought the Nine hither saw the fire. They did not know what it portended, they had only obeyed when called upon, but they shivered, muttered charms, clutched lucky pieces and made for-fending signs; and they were Ferriers of the Dead.
VI
1
West of Vorgium the hills became long and steep. Forest thinned out until there were only isolated stands of trees, and none wherever heath prevailed over pastureland. The soldiers were rarely out of sight of one or more megaliths, brooding grey amidst emptiness. Winds blew shrill and cold, drove clouds across heaven and their shadows across earth, often cast rainshowers. Yet here too it was the season of rebirth. Grass rippled like green flame, mustard and gorse flaunted gold, flowers were everywhere – tiny daisies, blue borage, violets, hyacinths, cuckoopint, speedwell, primrose, strewn through filigree of wild carrot and prickle of blackberry. Only willows had thus far come to full leaf, but oak and chestnut were beginning, while plum blossoms whitened their own boughs. Bumblebees droned, amber aflight. Blackbirds, starlings, sparrows, doves, gulls filled the sky with wings and calls.
Farmsteads were apt to be far apart, tucked into sheltering dells: a thatch-roofed wattle-and-daub house for people and animals together, perhaps a shed, a pigpen, a vegetable garden, an apple tree or so. Mainly folk in these parts lived by grazing s
heep and, to a lesser degree, cattle. They were all Osismii, and Gratillonius would not have been able to speak with them had he not picked up some of their language as a boy. It used many words unique to itself, words he thought must trace back to the Old Folk. Invading Celts, centuries ago, had made themselves the leading families of the tribe and mingled their blood with that of the natives, but more thinly, this far out on the peninsula, than elsewhere in Gallia.
Some words, he thought with an eerie thrill, must stem from another source, from Ys. They resembled none he had heard before, but stirred vague memories in him of names he had met when studying the history of the Punic Wars.
Although folk were friendly, much excited to see legionaries, he didn’t stop for talk except one evening when he chanced to camp near a dwelling. There he learned that the neighbourhood had suffered little from raiders, being too poor to draw them, but the western shore was an utter wreck apart from Gesocribate and Ys. The former was tucked well into a narrow bay and Roman-defended. The latter fronted on Ocean, but – The farmer signed himself to his Gods in awe of the power protecting that city. He would be glad to come under its guardianship. Unfortunately, Ys claimed only a few eastward miles of hinterland.
Disturbance crept about within Gratillonius. What forces indeed did such a minikin state command, that it endured while Rome crumbled?
He found himself thinking about that again when his squadron reached the coast and spent a night at Garomagus. He and his father had called there several times, in years as lost as the lives they had found. Small but bustling, the town once embodied those industries, that prosperity, which ringed its great bight: ceramics, metal-work, salt, and garum, the fish sauce Armoricans exported to the farthest ends of the Empire. Now, as sunset smouldered away, Gratillonius stood fingering a shard of a jar, among the burnt-out shells of buildings surrounding a forum where only he and the whimpering wind had motion.
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