More men bustled around than before, making preparations. Soren had gone to oversee matters in the city, and no Ysan present had much if any Latin. His halting Osismian won Gratillonius a little information from the chief steward, about what was happening and what to expect.
Trumpeters and criers went through the streets. ‘Allelu, allelu!’ resounded between walls and up into heaven. There followed words in the ancestral language of Ys, which had been Punic. Few other than sacerdotes and scholars knew it today, but it was sanctified. The message then repeated in the vernacular. ‘The King is dead, long live the King! In the names of Belisama, Taranis, Lir, come ye, come ye unto the coronation of your lord!’
The steward’s account continued from the immediate past to the present and immediate future.
From the temples of the Three, Their images rolled forth on wagons never used for aught else, drawn by paired white horses for Belisama, black for Lir, red for Taranis. Folk garlanded themselves and heaped the wains with what greenery and blossoms they could find. Led by drums, horns, harps, they went singing and dancing out of the gates and to the amphitheatre. The clear weather, which gave no cause to unroll the canvas roof, seemed to them a good omen. Some must stay behind, though, making ready for a night’s revelry.
The royal feast would be more sedate. Huntsmen tracked down a boar, out of the half-wild swine that ranged the Wood. At risk of life, they captured it in nets and hung it above the body of Colconor. There they cut its throat and bled it, down on to the fallen King. Stewed in a sacred cauldron, its flesh would be the centre of a meal here at the Red Lodge.
Taken aback, Gratillonius asked what would become of the human remnant. Ys, he heard, was like Rome in forbidding burials within city bounds; and the cemetery out on Cape Rach, under the pharos, had long since grown to cover as much land as could be allowed. Dead Ysans were taken to sea on a funeral barge and, weighted, sent down to Lir. But a former King lay in state in the temple of Taranis until he was burned, which was too costly for anyone else. A warship took his ashes out near the island Sena. There they were strewn, given to Belisama (Ishtar, Isis, Ashtoreth, Aphrodite, Venus, Nerthus …), the Star of the Sea.
As for his conqueror, following the victory feast, he spent his first night in this house. Thereafter he was free to move to his city palace. If he chose, he could visit his Queens in their separate homes, or call them to him –
‘Queens!’ burst from Gratillonius. ‘Hercules! Who are they? How many?’
The Nine, my lord, the Gallicenae, high priestesses of Belisama. But, um, the King is not compelled – save when ’tis Her will – Forgive me, great sir, a layman should not talk of these matters. They touch the very life of Ys. The Speaker will soon rejoin you and explain what my lord needs to know.’
Dazedly, Gratillonius received a herald, all in green and silver and with a peacock plume on his head, who announced that the processional was beginning. They must want their new King consecrated immediately, he thought. Well, they believed that somehow he embodied a God, or at least the force of that God, upon earth.
Outside, it was late afternoon, and the air boisterous. Soren waited with several fellow dignitaries of his temple. Nearby stood the legionaries. He had made arrangements for them to march along and have seats, later to be quartered in town: unusual, but then, every King was unique. How many had fought, won, reigned, fought, perished, how many ghosts were in this wind off the sea of Ys? Long hills, stark headlands, glimpsed towers and gleam of waters beyond, seemed remote to Gratillonius, not altogether real; he walked through a dream.
Where Processional Way, which led to the Wood, met Aquilonian Way, which ran out of the city’s eastern gate, the Gods received their King. The idols of Taranis and Belisama were handsome work in marble, twice life size, done by Greek sculptors whom the Romans brought in as a gesture of alliance in earlier times, He the stern man, She a woman beautiful and chastely clad. The emblem of Lir was immensely older, a rough granite slab engraved with Celtic spirals. Later Gratillonius would learn that that God was never given human shape. Sometimes folk described Him as having three legs and single eye, in the middle of His head, but they knew that was only a way of bespeaking something strange and terrible.
A jubilant crowd followed the wagons. Gratillonius had a feeling their joy was not pretended. Colconor appeared to have made himself hated – mostly among the first families of Ys, whom he daily encountered, but their anger would have trickled down to many commoners. And yet there had been no thought of overthrow, assassination, anything but enduring that which the Gods had chosen to inflict.
Unless – Again bewilderment laid hand on Gratillonius.
As the servant in the house had said they would, the throng moved eastward, down on to low ground, and neared the amphitheatre. It was Roman-built, a gracefully elliptical bowl of tiered benches within an outer wall of marble whose sheerness was relieved by columned door-ways and sculptured friezes. Nevertheless Gratillonius confirmed the impression he had got on the promontory, that it was alien. The proportions were not … quite … classic. The portals were pointed. The fluting and capitals of the pillars hinted at kelp swaying upwards from the sea bottom. The friezes mingled seals, whales, Northern fish with fabulous monsters unlike centaurs or gryphons, and with curious Gallic symbols. How much mark had Rome ever really made on Ys?
The people swarmed in right and left while the sacred cortege entered by a centrally southern archway, through a vaulted passage and out on to the arena. This was not sanded, to take up blood, but paved. A spina told Gratillonius that chariot races were held. That low wall ran down the middle of the arena, leaving space clear at either end; there rose posts for the hoisting of scorekeeping markers. In the middle, however, this spina broadened into a cornice, a balustraded stone platform. Stairways led up to it, as they did to the boxes in the stands reserved for magnates. That meant, Gratillonius realized, this place did not see beast combats – nor human, he felt sure.
When benches had filled with brightly clad spectators, the Gods made a circuit of the arena before stopping under the cornice on the south side. Gratillonius noticed that Belisama was in the middle. Soren told him to bow to Them as he, accompanied by the Speaker, went up on to the platform. Acolytes followed, bearing ewers, censers, evergreen boughs. Behind them, a rawboned greybeard carried a bronze casket. It was a position of honour; his robes were blue and silver, and Soren had introduced him as Hannon Baltisi, Lir Captain.
Standing aloft, these celebrants waited until a hush had fallen. The lowering sun still spilled brilliance down into the bowl, though shadows lengthened and chilled. A trumpet rang, high and icy sweet. From the middle northern archway came a band of girls and young women, gorgeously cloaked above white gowns, bearing tall candles in silver holders. The vestals, virgin daughters and granddaughters of the Queens, those who do not have vigil today,’ Soren murmured to Gratillonius. They moved wavelike to ring and spina while they sang:
‘Holy Ishtar Belisama,
Lady of the starry sky,
Come behold Your sacred drama
Taught to men by You on high.
You the Wise One are our teacher.
Spear-renowned of ancient days,
Hear the words of Your beseecher.
Mother, come receive our praise.
‘Great Taranis, heaven-shaker,
Lord of sky and inky cloud,
You the rain- and thunder-maker,
Wrap not this Your day in shroud.
Shed Your light on Your procession.
Bless us with Your golden rays.
Giver of all good possession,
Father, come receive our praise.
‘Lir of Ocean, dawn-begotten,
Lifter of the salty tide,
Be Your servants not forgotten
When in hollow hulls they ride.
Lord of waves and rocks, bereaving,
Draw us into safer ways,
And, our fears of wreck relieving,
Steer
sman, come receive our praise.
‘Threefold rulers of the city,
Star and Storm and Ocean Deep,
For our praise return us pity
While we wake and while we sleep.
Grant we keep our worship faithful,
Sung aloud in sacred lays.
Turn on us no faces wrathful.
Holy Three, receive our praise.’
And now arrived the Nine. Those whom Gratillonius had met this day were become as strange to him as were the rest, in gowns of blue silk bordered with figures akin to the friezes, white linen wrapped high over their heads and pinned by orichalcum crescents, faces stiff in solemnity. Pace by pace they approached the stairs and ascended one by one. A tall old woman led them … they seemed to be going in order of age … Soren spoke the name as each paused before Gratillonius, bent her head above folded hands, then entered a rank forming on his left hand and stood like soldiers, war captains of the Goddess, nothing further of humility about them … Quinipilis, Fennalis, Lanarvilis, Bodilis, Vindilis, Innilis, Maldunilis, Forsquilis–
Dahilis.
Dahilis rammed through Gratillonius. He would not confuse that name. O Gods, she was so much like Una the neighbour girl whom he loved when he was fifteen and ever since had sought to find again, for Una must needs marry wealth in Aquae Sulis if she would help her father stave off ruin … Dahilis reached to the base of Gratillonius’s throat. She was slender though full-bosomed, her hue very fair save for the tiniest dusting of freckles over a short, slightly flared nose; her mouth was soft and a little wide, dimples at the corners; her face was heart-shaped, high cheekbones delicately carven, chin small but firm; her dress brought out the changeable blue-green-hazel of big eyes under blonde brows; her movements kept an endearing trace of coltishness, as young as she was … When she looked at him, her look was not like that of any of the others, proud or rapt or victorious or wary. A blush crept up from her bosom, her lips parted and he heard her catch her breath before she moved on.
Invocations sounded forth, first in Punic, next in Ysan. Gratillonius could not make himself pay close heed. Reality struck him in the stomach when the Lir Captain opened his casket and held it out to the Speaker, who lifted forth a key on a fine golden chain. Gratillonius knew that key. ‘Kneel,’ Soren commanded, ‘and receive the Power of the Gate that is the King’s.’
Gratillonius obeyed. When the loop went over his head and the thing hung from his neck it felt heavy, and as if so cold as to freeze his heart through the pectoral and robe. That passed over. He forgot it in the next moment, for out of the casket Soren had brought a crown.
‘Receive the sigil of your lordship and the blessing,’ the Speaker said.
‘No, I cannot,’ Gratillonius whispered.
Soren almost dropped the circlet of golden spikes. ‘What?’
‘I told you I follow Mithras,’ Gratillonius replied in hasty Latin. ‘When they raised me to Soldier of the Mystery, I was thrice offered a crown and must thrice refuse it, vowing never to wear any, for the God alone is Lord.’
‘You shall –’ Soren broke off. Glances clashed. He made a wry mouth. ‘Best not risk a disturbance. The Key is what truly matters. Hannon, keep silence. Gratillonius, may I briefly hold the crown above your head? Answer, quick!’
I must not let them order a Roman about, passed through the centurion. ‘Do that and nothing else. Or I’ll fling it from me. My legionaries sit yonder, still armed.’ Soren flushed. ‘Very well. But remember Colconor.’ Gratillonius heard a buzz go around the seats at the change in the ceremony, but it died away and everything further was soon completed. Afterwards the maidens led the Queens out; Suffetes came down from their boxes to meet the new King in the arena; the amphitheatre emptied; last, the Gods of Ys went home to Their temples, to abide the future.
2
After sunset the wind loudened and bleakened, driving rainclouds before it low above the land. The first few spatters were flying when the magnates bade their host goodnight and departed with their lantern bearers for the city, a mile hence. Gratillonius left the door and paced the length of the hall.
It had been a polite gathering, but cautious and formal, when neither side knew what to make of the other. He was no desperate adventurer or runaway slave, he was an agent of the Empire, come to serve its purposes; and though he promised those would enhance the welfare of Ys, he could not blame its leading men if they took that incident of the crown as a bad sign. He had to win their trust. Before he could do so he must understand them in some measure, and what his position among them really was. Well, he thought, tomorrow I’ll begin, I’ll take my earliest few steps into the labyrinth.
He grew aware that the household staff had assembled before the wall that divided the two portions of the lodge. Flickers of firelight and lamplight showed them expectant. What, more procedures? He stopped and waited.
The chief steward touched his brow, salutation to a superior. ‘Is my lord ready for bed?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I … I’m not sleepy, but I suppose I may as well–’
‘Presently comes the bride of my lord’s first night.’
‘Uh?’ No, he would not reveal perplexity. Had he, with his limited knowledge even of Osismian, misunderstood something? Well, let that happen which the Gods willed. Certain it was that he had slept solitary for months. He felt sudden heat in his loins. Of course, if they went by precedence of age – maybe he could blow out the lights and use his imagination. ‘Aye,’ he said, as calmly as might be, ‘let us do what may beseem this occasion.’
Servants guided him to a well-outfitted chamber, helped him disrobe, brought in a flagon of wine, cups, cakes and cheeses and sweetmeats, several lamps, incense which they set burning, and left. Abed, unable to lie down, Gratillonius sat with arms folded across nightshirted knees. Warmth from the floor, fragrance from the sandalwood and myrrh, enfolded him. Noise of wind and rain sounded remote beyond the shutters. Much louder was his heartbeat.
Nine wives – He wondered wildly what his duty was towards them. He had married them in a heathen rite and because he had no choice if he was to carry out his mission. When he was done here and could go home, need he legally divorce them? He should ask a Mithraic Father. Yet meanwhile they were human, they could feel pain, and, O Gods, there would likely be children–
Faintly there reached him a hymeneal hymn. It could only be that. His pulse quickened still more. Who had arrived? Wrinkled Quinipilis, bitter Vindilis, handsome Forsquilis, what could happen with any of them? Somehow they had known he was on his way hither.
The door opened. ‘May all Gods bless this holy union,’ said the steward. Dahilis entered. The steward closed the door behind her.
Dahilis.
She stood as if frightened. One small hand fumbled at the brooch of a rain-wet cloak. She swallowed before she could speak. ‘My lord King, is … is Dahilis, his Queen … is Dahilis welcome?’ Her voice was a little thin, but the timbre caused him to remember meadowlarks.
He surged from the bed and went to take both her hands in his. ‘Welcome, oh, indeed welcome,’ he said hoarsely.
The cloak came off. He took it and tossed it aside. She had changed to a simple gown of grey wool whose belt hugged it against her slimness. Her hair was piled high, held up by a comb. He saw that it was thick and wavy, sun-golden with just a tinge of copper. He clasped her shoulders, looked down, and said in his lame Osismian, which he tried to give an Ysan lilt: ‘How wonderful that you, you, should seek me this night.’
She lowered her gaze. They, the Sisters, they decided it when – when we called you, my lord, called you to deliver us.’
He did not want to think about that, not now. ‘I will strive to show kindness … unto all – Fear me never, Dahilis. If ever I blunder into wrongdoing, tell me, only tell me.’
‘My lord –’ She received his embrace, she responded, the kiss lasted long, she was not skilled but she was quick to learn, and eager.
‘Well, uh, well,’ he laughed br
eathlessly, ‘come, let us sit down, refresh ourselves, get acquainted.’
Her glance was astounded. ‘Col –’ she began, and checked herself. Colconor, he thought, Colconor would never have troubled to put her at ease. (Supposing that he, Gratillonius, could do it in this first encounter.) ‘Already you are being kind,’ she whispered.
They took chairs opposite each other at the table. He felt in a remote fashion what a curious arrangement that was. But naturally, she was used to it. He poured wine. When he was about to add water, she made a shy negative gesture, so he refrained too. Her cup trembled as she lifted it. The drink was dry and full-bodied, warming both flesh and spirit. He thought he would readily learn to like taking his wine like this.
‘Do you speak Latin?’ he inquiried in that language.
‘I can try,’ she gave him back with difficulty. ‘We study it in vestal school. But I’ve seldom had any practice since.’
He smiled. ‘Between the two, we’ll get along.’ And thus they did. Sometimes it required much repetition or search for a word, but that became part of a game they played, helping them feel more comfortable with each other; and he found himself actually beginning to acquire Ysan.
‘I know well-nigh nothing, Dahilis,’ he said. ‘You understand, don’t you, I did not intend to take the Kingship. I stumbled into it.’ Her look sharpened, and he hurried on before she could respond. ‘I do not even know what questions to ask. So let us talk freely, dear. Will you tell me about yourself?’
She dropped long lashes. ‘Naught is there to say. I am too young.’
Roma Mater Page 11
